Tricks of the Mind
by ganja-chan
Summary: John is tired after the whole day of work and tries to unwind a bit. However, his mind has its own ideas about it. It leads to big changes in his life. One-sided JohnLock. Much psychology. Slow build, and no real sex. Concrit greatly appreciated. I changed the genre to Romance/Angst because there are some quite dark parts, but there's also some humour. Spoilers for E03S01, E01S02.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Hello everyone, you might know me already from my Bleach fanfics. Here I am again with a short Johnlock piece, depicting my newly-acquired love towards the couple. I just wanted to say that I'm not a native English-speaker, so there might be mistakes in the fic. I hope that you will review the story when you read it and tell me whether you want more of it or not (because if it's totally crap then I simply won't write any more of it). Concrit and any ideas for future development are also greatly appreciated! I also hope that I didn't use anyone's ideas, I swear that I wasn't trying to copy anything and if I accidentaly did then you can consider it a praise to your great writing!

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the characters, the show or anything and it better lasts that way because I would make it into a gay romantic comedy.

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John slumped onto the bed, still in the same clothes he had been wearing all day, but too exhausted to change. He removed only his belt, which had been digging painfully into his abdomen. The sheets smelled of sleep. It was the only thing that he needed at that moment.

As he was slowly drifting off to the realm of dreams, his thoughts were wandering. Using what remained of his willpower, he tried to reject any single one about the day and the case. He learned the trick thanks to his therapy and knew better than to allow his mind to linger on things that would probably keep it awake all night, making him invent better scenarios in his head for things that were already in the past and thus beyond his control, and eventually making him mentally slap himself for not being even remotely close to perfect. Even though nobody was perfect. It was _obvious _that nobody was. Like when this kid got shot in the head right in front of him. It wasn't his fault, it was war. He couldn't have done anything. But there was that time when he was stitching that one guy, and the stich came out uneven and the guy's face would be deformed. And he had shown him a photo of his girlfriend the day before. John felt responsible for the stich, even though the guy was yelling and tossing his head around and it was a miracle that John didn't take out his eye. The therapist said that it certainly wasn't his fault and yet the thought itself provoked uneasi-

And he was doing that again. Well, at least he wasn't thinking about the case.

He mentally kicked these thoughts in the ass and decided to take a shower, as he was already more awake than when he lay down. He grabbed his pyjamas from under the pillow and dragged himself along to the bathroom. There, he undressed and stepped into the shower, trying not to look at the wrinkles forming on his forehead, clearly visible in the mirror above the sink. The warm water trickling down his back felt so good and just then he realized how sweaty and dirty he had been all day. He imagined that his bad thoughts were washed away as well. While reaching for his 3-in-1 shower gel, he accidentally knocked over Sherlock's shampoo. The bottle opened and some of the transparent thick liquid spilled onto John's hand. He fumbled with the bottle to close it. He certainly didn't want to buy Sherlock a new shampoo as it looked like one that you could only get for a ridiculous amount of money from some designer hairdresser's place.

Apart from the fact that using a shampoo separately from the shower gel was already quite gay. He had never thought of that before. Surely Sherlock would justify his decision to own a separate shampoo by saying that in the course of one of his experiments he discovered that it stimulated his neurons in a different way. Or something, but it was nevertheless gay.

Great, now everything smelled like Sherlock's hair. Not that John had ever purposefully smelled it before. It was just somehow that when people start sweating, you can smell their shampoo, that's all. John tried to ignore the expensive, perfumed scent while he was washing his hair and body with his own cheap citrus shower gel and remembered that thinking of sex was always a good option when it came to distractions.

He started off with Sarah and the perfect shape of her breasts under the shirt. They were just about the size to squeeze each one in a hand. And he would first circle his thumbs around the nipples. Then kiss them. Suck them and feel them go nice and hard, and it certainly wasn't the only thing that was going nice and hard at that moment. He imagined her hands reaching down and stroking slowly, then her getting on her knees and taking him to her mouth.

John was stroking himself with a soaped hand and pleasure was slowly building up in his belly. He opened his mouth and let a soft sigh escape it while drops of water were trickling inside. It was blissful. He changed the angle at which he was moving his hand and shivered, it felt so good. He took a big gulp of air and imagined how Sarah would look like with her face flushed and eyes full of passion, awaiting what would soon come...

But his mind played a trick on him and instead of Sarah provided him a clear image of Sherlock.

"Jesus fucking Christ!", he exclaimed and almost slipped on the wet shower floor. He leaned over onto the wall for support. His heart was beating furiously and he couldn't tell whether it was because of the masturbation or because of the image of his flatmate sucking him off.

He massaged his temples and decided that it had been a very hard day and that it was that bloody scent all over that made his mind place Sherlock down there. He steadied his breath and heard Sherlock's voice from behind the door, "John, is everything all right?"

"Yes. Yes. Everything's fine. Perfectly fine", he answered, still panting. He finished what he started by carefully imagining a scene from one of the adult movies that he had on his computer (a lesbian movie just to be sure). It wasn't even close to the previous sensations he provided himself with, but he certainly didn't want to risk his mind playing tricks on him again.

When he was spent, he turned the water off, stepped out and dried himself. He put on his worn-out pyjamas, had one more look at the wrinkles in the mirror and walked back into the room. Sherlock was sprawled on the couch, his face blank. He was following John with his eyes.

"Good night", John said and proceeded to his bedroom.

"John", Sherlock called after him. John turned to look at him. "I know you were masturbating", all said with the same expressionless face.

John felt his shoulders drop. He sighed. "Great deduction, Sherlock, but you aren't ten years old."

He suddenly felt very tired and didn't want to pursue the topic at the moment or at any moment whatsoever, so he simply turned and went upstairs to his bedroom, cursing the damned shampoo in his mind.

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All for now! That's a gentle reminder about the reviews :) thank you!


	2. Chapter 2

I decided to continue the fic anyway. Again, whatever are your thoughts on the fic, please review as it helps me to get better! :) I also wanted to remind you that English is not my mother tongue, so should you find any mistakes, please let me know. In this chapter there is some swearing, but not really much graphic action (sorry). On with the second chapter!

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Morning. John went downstairs, the perfumed scent of Sherlock's shampoo still lingering everywhere around him, clinging to his nose. And Sherlock was still sprawled on the sofa the way he had been the night before, with his head on the armrest and his legs bent and resting against the other armrest. The detective's lips were slightly parted and he was breathing peacefully, his slim chest rising and falling slowly with each breath. John was drawn to him; he couldn't help but notice how soft the skin on his flatmate's throat looked; so pale, almost translucent. He had never noticed that before, but Sherlock wore his shirts without a tie so that he could expose a bit more of his long, _marvelous_ neck.

As he was staring at the immaculate fragment of exposed skin, he didn't notice that Sherlock had closed his mouth and was staring back at him with his eyelids half-closed, without contempt but more with curiosity and something else that John couldn't name but that really pleased him. Their eyes met and John couldn't help the heat that stirred deep down in his stomach. Sherlock slowly rose from the sofa and without a word approached John. The detective's eyes were dark when he raised his hand to stroke John's cheek, and John could only stand there open-mouthed with Sherlock in all his tall and slender glory towering over him. John could see the a vein on his neck throbbing slightly with every heartbeat and he felt an urge to bite this particular place.

Sherlock stroked John's bottom lip with his thumb and bared his teeth in a very sensual way that John didn't even know turned him on. Their bodies were already touching, the warmth spreading through John's gut and exploding when he felt a hand feeling him down there through his pyjamas and he heard the low growl that was definitely not his, and he moaned softly against his will, but the sound was muffled by the lips that were pressed against his mouth...

John sat bolt upright in his bed, cluthing the sheets to his chest and gasping for air. The first things he noticed were that he definitely had a hard-on, that he was sweaty all over and that his heart was beating as fast as if he had just run a marathon. But it was only a dream. There was no Sherlock kissing and groping him, the thought of which made him shiver with disgust, and the morning wood was, after all, a perfectly normal thing that happened probably to every male human being in the world. Even Sherlock had to have morning wood sometimes, which was not a good thing to think about at that very moment.

Pushing the thoughts aside willingly, John put on his bathrobe and went down the stairs to find Sherlock sprawled on the couch, in the same way he had been the night before and in John's dream. But he was snoring like a lawn mower. John knew that it was only an act as Sherlock never snored but apparently he considered it amusing. However, thanks to that John had no problem convincing himself that this wasn't another part of his weird dream and that he was in no way attracted to that moron, as a _heterosexual male_, for God's sake. Yet... apart from the snoring and generally not-yet-out-of-bed appearance, he had to admit that Sherlock's vibrating throat really did look kind of kissable...

The snoring ceased and their gazes locked before John could throw the Union Jack pillow at his flatmate. He cleared his throat and proceeded to the kitchen as if nothing happened. Because _nothing happened_, it was just an infortunate dream induced by yesterday's equally infortunate shampoo spill. And not reality.

"Good morning", he said when he was safely away from Sherlock's gaze. The detective grunted and huddled himself on the couch, facing its back. In the meantime John put up the kettle for tea, extracted some bread rolls, butter and ham, and started making sandwiches.

"Want a sandwich?", he asked Sherlock out of sheer habit. He heard a muffled "nah" in response, but he made an additional sandwich anyway. He poured boiling water into his mug and put a tea bag inside, and after a brief moment of hesistation did the same with another mug. There was no reason for him to be angry at Sherlock, after all if it was anyone's fault, it certainly wasn't Sherlock's. He had to behave normally or Sherlock will start suspecting something, and with that guy there was nothing he could hide.

He brought all that into the room, put the mugs on the coffee table, the plate in his lap and turned on the telly. He zapped through the channels, searching for the morning news, and cleared his throat again, glancing at Sherlock still curled up on the sofa. His feet were moving rythmically, probably tapping to some symphony or something like that, the buzzing of the telly never disturbing him. There was, as always, something happening in Syria, the US president comenting on that, some guy from Eastern Europe interviewed on the economic crisis, some school starting classes on robotics... Then started some morning show where they invited stars to talk with them about various kinds of stuff, like food, hobbies, pets, pregnancy... things that Sherlock would surely call "boring", and which weren't that interesting for John either but he simply liked something buzzing in the background while he had his breakfast.

Suddenly, there was a rustle of fabric, two steps and one of the sandwiches was snatched from the plate. Startled, John spilled tea all over his chest.

"For fuck's sake!", he exclaimed, as the still hot tea soaked through the fabric. He threw the empty plate onto the table and tugged his pyjamas shirt off. A large pink mark was growing on his chest. "Why on Earth did you do this, you dork?!", he yelled at Sherlock, who was leisurely munching on the sandwich, sitting on the bloody sofa like a fucking aristocrat.

"You are jumpy", the detective said, lifting his tea mug. "I wonder why".

John's breathing was certainly quicker than normal. "I am _jumpy_?", he asked.

"Certainly".

"You've almost burned me!"

"The tea was too cold to burn you".

"But you stole my sandwich!". John didn't want to evoke the shampoo accident from the day before.

"You weren't going to eat it anyway, _ergo _you made it for me. I only took what was already mine. Is there anything wrong? You have been a bit jumpy since yesterday".

"Yeah, and you're the first person to notice such th-"

At that precise moment Sherlock chose to look John straight in the eyes, taking an elegant sip of the tea.

John cursed under his breath and threw himself back into the armchair, looking as much away from Sherlock as it was possible, his deep baritone still ringing in his ears. Anyway, when did he start to notice the timbre of Sherlock's voice?

There was some girl talking about those ridiculous munchkin cats on the telly. The cats were looking at him with their flat, chubby faces and indifferent eyes, the girl was looking at him with her huge cleavage, but John's thoughts were elsewhere.

When Sherlock turned away from him again with a soft rustling and creaking noise, and steadied himself into his favourite day-off-work position, John stood up, collected his still wet shirt from the floor and went to his bedroom to get dressed. He needed a walk. Alone. To think.

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All for now, I remind you to review :) See you!


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello I bring another chapter :) I hope that you will enjoy it, it's more on the lighter side, I promise to put in some angst soon. I just thought that from time to time everyone gets a funny day in their life, right? If I make any mistake, please correct me, and I was convinced that the plural of penis is peni. Apparently it's penises. Just wanted to explain this and now on to the fic.**

London was waking up. John walked briskly towards the park, where he hoped he could find some peace of mind. The morning was chilly, but it was getting warmer as the sun was peeping shyly from behind the clouds. John focused on his breath, synchronized with his steps, passing people walking their dogs and in several cases dogs walking their people, as well as pigeons that were afraid neither of the dogs nor of the people. It would be a beautiful day, especially as John still had much time before he was expected at his mundane job, so he could even walk all the way there instead of taking the Tube. This was a very good plan.

He found himself a nice secluded bench between the lake and a willow tree and sat there, trying to collect his thoughts and put them in some kind of order.

The main problem was why was his mind playing such tricks on him? Certainly, Sherlock was an exciting person, intellectually, but he had never been particularly attracted to the man. He sure was considered handsome by women and some men, and John had to admit that he _was _fascinated with Sherlock's mental abilities, demonstrations of which usually made John's mind explode with data overload, and he was curious what else may be hidden under that mop of black curly hair. That curiosity might have led to attraction, but not in a sexual kind of way. And yet if he told anyone about his shower fantasy or the dream, they would certainly say that, actually, it was in a very sexual way. It is said that the subconscious reveals itself in dreams. But his subconscious was perfectly heterosexual, he was turned on by boobs and curved hips and full lips and he only watched heterosexual porn. And when he thought of sex, it was always with a woman. He had checked so many times that it was certain that God had made him that way. He liked things to be soft, curved, sensual and sweet, just like women. So it was the only possibility.

"I like women!", John exclaimed, throwing up his hands into the air. A duck almost choked on a quack. A young photographer in tight-fit jeans who was taking photos just a few feet behind John retreated with a disappointed look on his face. What was lacking was only a choir singing hallelujah, and John considered the matter settled as he proceeded to put his plan of walking to work into effect.

He arrived a bit early, greeted everyone at the clinic with a broad smile that a man could only produce after coming to terms with his sexual preferences, grabbed a coffee and sat at his desk. His first patient was some girl with a cold. While checking her heart and lungs, John did one thing that was totally unprofessional and for a split second allowed himself to see her not as a patient, but as a young, ripe woman.

Definitely, the boobs still turned him on.

He checked the other symptoms, looking for any signs of flu, pneumonia or other potentially dangerous disease, and as he found none, he sent the girl home with a prescription for paracetamol, cough syrup and nose spray. He had a few more patients then, out of whom he sent one for jaw RTG (his jaw made a crunching sound every time he opened his mouth), one for echo (he was a new patient at the clinic and had a history of heart problems) and there was also one girl who has just started her period and John had to explain everything to her and even gave her the 'My First Period' promotional set. This only strengthened his belief that he was perfectly straight, as menstruation, uteri, vaginae, labia and all kinds of female stuff didn't freak him out, even in practice.

Well, PMS did freak him out a bit, especially in practice.

On the other hand, penises didn't freak him out either. He was good buddies with his own one, and it never disappointed him. And he has seen enough of penises in real life and in different configurations to be sure that even if they didn't freak him out, other men's penises weren't something worth his further notice. They weren't even that pretty.

Actually, neither were vaginae. Someone once said that a vagina before sex looks like a blooming flower, and afterwards like a pit-bull that fell head-first into mayonnaise, and that summed it up pretty much.

His phone beeped.

_What are you doing? I'm bored. - SH_

John smirked at the phone, fighting the urge to tell Sherlock that he was just thinking about human genitalia.

However, he lost the fight, as the thought that maybe it would be amusing to read Sherlock's reaction to his text. _Just thinking about penises and vaginae, that's all._

_Anyone in particular? - SH_

That's when it dawned on John that starting a text conversation about penises with Sherlock might have not been such a good idea after all. He slammed the phone against the table, trying not to think about what his mind produced in the shower or in his dream.

But he couldn't help imagining Sherlock saying "anyone in particular?" in his deep baritone voice, with a little pause after "anyone". He probably would shift his gaze from whatever was keeping his attention in order to look at John, slightly rising an eyebrow...

_Me and my NEW GIRLFRIEND, thank you very much._ - he replied to the text, again feeling the uneasiness with which he woke up that morning.

_You said it in plural. Why? - SH_

_Why not?_

_Would you like it? - SH_

_Why would you like to know?_

_I like to know things – SH_

_No, it's only one penis and one vagina. _

_OK. - SH_

Jokes aside, John did feel quite drained after this exchange. In the morning, when he was coming to terms with his sexuality, everything seemed so easy. He registered no change in his preferences, and here he was, almost discussing sexual fantasies with his flatmate who appeared in his dream.

_But you don't have a girlfriend. - SH_

John thought he needed to visit his therapist.

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**A/N: Thanks for reading this chapter, please leave reviews as it makes be a better writer and a better person :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: That's the next chapter, hooray! I said that it gets a bit darker now, but I rethought it and decided that it would be better if I pursued my other idea for now, and that was sticking to the plot of the series and finding tasty johnlock bits to write about. So as always - read, leave reviews for me, because they make me a better writer, and hopefully enjoy :) And let me know of any mistakes that somehow find their way into the fic as I'm not a native English speaker, however proficient my English might be. **

**Oh, there's a spoiler for S01E03, so if you haven't watched it, you might not want to read this chapter. **

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Luckily, Sherlock didn't pursue the topic any more that day, even though he still wasn't asleep when John came back home at around midnight. John could tell even before entering the flat, as a violin concerto was seeping through the open windows. At least it was an already existing musical piece and not some on-the-spot cacophony that Sherlock was so fond of inventing in moments of boredom.

It wasn't actually that bad. When John entered the flat, Sherlock didn't pay even a tiny bit of attention to him, focusing instead on his instrument. John took advantage of it and sneaked into his room.

The dream didn't reoccur that night, and the night after that, and for a few following days, and as the alarm clock woke John up every morning, he was pretty sure that the dream was only a whimsy of his mind, which obviously lacked sexual stimulation; he postponed the visit to his therapist, blaming his uneasiness following the dream for the strange exchange of text messages and his attribution of wrongful intentions.

Because his sexuality was unquestionable. This was his new motto.

Things were getting better with Sarah, who, even if she wasn't John's girlfriend _yet_, she was definitely his girlfriend-to-be, whatever Sherlock thought about it. The events from a few days ago, when Sarah was almost pierced with a gigantic bolt, were now a laughing matter between them, as both of them had the ideal personalities to just be happy that everyone was safe and sound after all and not to reminisce on hurtful past events.

They talked a lot. About things. They even went out twice more, this time without Sherlock, and it was brilliant, even though John didn't want to spoil the moment by suggesting that they move on onto the next step in their relationship.

Sherlock found a case to keep himself busy and John was grateful for that too as it meant less interaction between them. But as John regained his mental balance once again, it was apparently meant to be ruined.

When he came back one day after a particularly long day at work, he didn't hear violin music. He didn't hear laptop keys clicking. He heard gunshots.

At first his heart froze at the memories from the battle front.

Then it froze once again, thinking that something happened to Sherlock.

Or Mrs. Hudson.

But when he ran up the stairs, he discovered that the only thing that had happened to Sherlock was that he had obviously lost his fucking mind.

The detective was sprawled on one of the armchairs, shooting at the wall. With. Fucking. Bullets.

"What the HELL are you doing?!"

John wanted to take that fucking gun and shove it up Sherlock's ass. Down his throat. For scaring him.

"Bored", was the only answer. John was so furious that he almost missed it.

"What?", he asked, ready to put the plan into effect.

"Bored!", Sherlock repeated, springing up from the armchair and before John could say anything, he started shooting at the wall again, behaving like a spoiled five-year-old. That's why they want to have gun control in the US – so that such kids wouldn't play with them.

John rushed into the room when it seemed that Sherlock was done with the shooting and intercepted the gun, locking it at once.

"Don't know what's got into criminal classes", Sherlock muttered, throwing himself onto the couch dramatically. "Good job I'm not one of them."

John hid the gun, feeling his anger subside. At least no one was hurt. "So you take it out on the wall?", he asked, not really expecting a reply.

"The wall had it coming", was the reply that came.

As the situation was stable and the kid wasn't playing with dangerous objects anymore, John took off his coat and asked Sherlock about the Russian case which turned out to have been Belarusian and apparently wasn't worth Sherlock's time.

The kitchen almost provoked John again to give vent to his raising anger, as the table was full of Sherlock's lab equipment so that there wasn't even a square inch of space to eat on, and in the fridge...

"Oh, fuck."

John felt like crying.

"There's a head. A severed head."

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"And he apparently wasn't even bothered by the fact that there was a fucking _head_ in the fridge just next to the food, and you know what he did next? He ranted on how fucking idiotic my blog is, which of course I write about _him_ and _his _achievements, not even caring for a split second about what I may think and feel and need, and then we had a talk about what really is important in life, because he doesn't even care whether the Earth goes round the Sun or not, and then he basically called me an idiot in comparison to his fucking genius, because of course he fucking _is_ one, so that's why I'm here", John stopped to take a breath. "Can you imagine he tried to stop me?!"

Sarah was looking at John with glazed-over eyes. "Yeah, and then?", she asked.

John suddenly felt like a deflated balloon. "That's it. That's the whole story", he replied. He reached for the glass standing on the coffee table and took a sip. Sarah had reopened half a bottle of some Merlot that she hadn't finished during a girls' night with her best friends. So they were sipping the cold red wine that had the unique heavy, tart taste to it, perfectly corresponding to John's bitter mood right then.

"I don't know if you've noticed", Sarah said, leaning back on the sofa, "but you're really worked up over all this."

"He said so already! Of course I'm worked up, I live with that jerk, don't wanna get shot again!"

"I think there's more to it than just that", Sarah said, looking away and taking a sip from her own glass.

"What do you mean?", John looked at Sarah, perplexed, but he could read nothing in her weary expression. She was silent for a moment and then replied:

"If it was only that you don't wanna get shot, you would just strangle him right there and then. Or at least restrain him. You can do that, right?"

"But he's a bloody genius, I would be dead if I strangled him!"

"That's not what I'm talking about. I mean that you care about him and your relationship with him."

"We don't have any bloody relationship!"

"I didn't mean that in romantic sense, necessarily", Sarah looked him in the eye. John swallowed. The tart aftertaste was still there. "Just take what I said into consideration, okay? Because if you don't do anything about it, it will only get worse. And now I have to excuse myself, but I'm terribly tired and wanna go to sleep", Sarah stood up and took the empty wine bottle and her glass to the kitchen. John finished his wine and followed her.

Sarah's kitchen was a bit of a mess, but it was at least homely, so much different from what John got used to while living with Sherlock.

Their hands touched when they were putting their glasses in the sink. John felt a jolt in his stomach at the touch. He grasped Sarah's hand gently and when she turned to face him, he gently cupped her cheek and leaned in to kiss her. She pressed her warm body against his at first, but when the kiss started to get passionate, she pushed at his chest with her hands.

John felt strange.

"Is someone trying to make me rethink my decision to make you sleep on the couch?", she asked with a playful smile. John grinned at her and made a second attempt at a kiss. "There's no way, doctor", Sarah put her hand on John's mouth. "Don't. Seriously. Think about what I told you."

Then she left John in the kitchen. He looked through the window, still with the strange feeling in his gut. Did he say anything wrong? He bet that Sarah would tell him if he did. Maybe she was just tired, as she had said.

John went over to the couch and slumped onto it. There was a pillow and a blanket left for him, so he made himself comfortable.

Before he fell asleep, he had the random thought that somehow the kiss with Sarah felt as if he were cheating on Sherlock. But then he drifted off and forgot about the thought.

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**That's all for now folks, I hope you enjoyed, leave a review if you did and one also if you didn't so that I can become a better writer :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I AM AN IDIOT.**

**I PUT IN THE DRAFT VERSION OF THE CHAPTER.**

**AND IT TOOK ME A WEEK TO FINISH THE FINAL VERSION (the one that follows the storyline of the series)**

**Please forgive me. And review. I have a resolution for the rest of my life, double check if what I'm publishing isn't the draft version. ESPECIALLY if I'm dead tired. Hope you enjoy this version more :)**

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In the morning John felt a lot better, despite being slightly ashamed at what he might have said last night and a little bit thirsty after the Merlot. Sarah behaved as if nothing happened and even said that maybe she could let John sleep at the end of her bed next time, which was an obvious signal that she didn't mind John's presence at all. And maybe she even liked him.

She retrieved the remote control from between the pillows on the couch and turned on the TV. She looked gorgeous in her light purple dressing gown and she even suggested that she made John some breakfast which made his face light up with the prospect of a good meal with Sarah as company.

"Well, you'd better make it yourself because I'm going to take a shower", she said just then. What a tease she was!

John thought that actually he could use a shower too, but it would have to wait, as now Sarah was there and he had no spare cloth-

His thought was interrupted by the image shown on the TV screen. It was a piece of news about an explosion in central London, and on the screen was nothing else than Baker Street and his house.

Sherlock.

And Mrs. Hudson.

Sick with worry, he sprang up, announced that he had to run, caught a cab and was on Baker Street in what seemed to be no time at all. There were lots of people standing there and looking at the damaged building, but luckily it was the one on the other side of the road. John made his way through the small crowd.

A giant hole was gaping in the building opposite 221B. The police and fire department officers were all around and busy, and John was dashing between them in a haze, with only one objective on his mind – find Sherlock and make sure that he was safe and sound.

And Mrs. Hudson, of course.

He rushed into the house, barely noticing shards of glass even on the stairs, which said much about the impact of the explosion.

"Sherlock!", he tried.

And there he was, fiddling with his violin.

The bastard. Whom he wanted to hug just for being alive.

There was also Mycroft.

"I saw it on the telly, are you okay?", John asked, just to make sure, though he could see that Sherlock was alright. But what the hell was Mycroft doing there?

The windows were covered with paper. The explosion must have smashed them out.

"Me? What? Oh, yeah, fine", Sherlock replied absent-mindedly. "Gas leak, apparently".

And then the Holmes brothers returned to some conversation they were having previously, about something that Sherlock couldn't do and that Mycroft wanted him to do. John inspected what was left of the windows, hoping that they don't include his person in the discussion.

"Perhaps you could get through to him, John".

He pretended not to have heard.

"I'm afraid my brother could be very intransigent".

It seemed that Sherlock lost interest in what Mycroft was saying, as he too started asking John questions about Sarah and his night at her place.

He even knew that he was at first meant to sleep on the lilo, and Mycroft corrected him by saying that it was the sofa. It was the sofa, and John didn't want to know how they knew. It was just creepy that they didn't bother to ignore these facts even if they somehow discovered them, and that they didn't hesitate to tell him that they knew. It seemed as if they took pleasure in the act. Was it to humiliate him? No, it was probably just a show-off between the two.

Then Mycroft made an attempt at a small talk. "Sherlock's business has been booming since he and you became... pals", John didn't like the small pause before the last word. "What's he like to live with?", and all that with that awful smile of his. "Hellish, I imagine."

John could see the change in Sherlock's eyes. Whatever he said or believed, it must be hard to hear one's own brother comment on him like that. Even for a sociopath.

"I'm never bored", the doctor replied, which was of course the truth. Yes, he had been angry at Sherlock the day before, but now he was just happy that he was safe, and he couldn't bring himself to tell something bad about his partner in front of this man whose morals he doubted.

"Good! That's good, isn't it?", Mycroft assumed the tone of a primary school teacher, fiddling with his umbrella all the time. John felt something like anger, he could feel the familiar heat creeping up his neck. But it was also fear. His therapist always told him that anger is born out of fear and the inability to do something about it. What did he fear?

Mycroft seemed like a person who could crush him with the umbrella like a bug. It was a disgusting thought. But he had seen things in his life; he held Mycroft's gaze until the latter lowered his eyes and decided that it was high time he went.

Just then John remembered what Sarah had said the day before. That he cared for Sherlock and that this care was why it hurt when someone said bad things about the detective. Mycroft must have sensed it too. But between them was only friendship, nothing more, and John was also angry at Mycroft for suggesting that they may be more to it while John was trying so hard to behave like a friend should, and at the same time feared that the older Holmes can use it against Sherlock or him.

Mycroft handed Sherlock a bunch of papers, but as he refused to take them, he gave them to John and went on to summarize the case of Andrew West who apparently jumped in front of the train after stealing a particularly precious memory stick that contained some information crucial to the UK government.

* * *

After laying out the case to John (and Sherlock, who wasn't in fact listening), Mycroft shook John's hand and left, saying "See you very soon" to John as a goodbye. It sounded menacing and John felt even more uneasy as Sherlock started playing short, rapid notes on his violin that were probably part of some popular melody that rung a bell with John. If Sherlock was normal and a teenager, he would probably mutter abuse under his breath, but that was Sherlock and he was posh and at least physically adult.

When the door closed after Mycroft, John turned towards Sherlock, who was still fiddling with his violin. Sherlock didn't return the look. His face was unreadable.

John sat down and although he felt relieved that Mycroft left, the pressure didn't fade. Sherlock behaved like a spoiled five-year-old again – didn't take the case because it was his brother who brought it to him. John suddenly felt quite tired again, but he though he should say something.

"Why did you lie?", he asked. Sherlock finally looked at him, puzzled. "You've got nothing on, not a single case. That's why the wall took the pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"

John felt a bit like if he was speaking to an ill-behaved child, even more so when Sherlock replied, "Why shouldn't I?", rubbing the bow against his neck in a very non-chalant way.

"Oh, nice", John said. He felt the anger from yesterday's morning rise inside him once again, and now he felt betrayed because he was worried about Sherlock and he wanted to protect the bastard from his own brother, and the said bastard couldn't even be bothered to say thank you. "Sibling rivalry, now we're getting somewhere."

He couldn't tell whether Sherlock felt even the tiniest bit of guilt (he probably didn't), because at that very moment Sherlock's phone rang, he answered and when John saw his eyes lit up, he knew he would do nothing more about it.

It was Lestrade. Sherlock accepted the case in few words and asked John if he was coming as if John hadn't wanted to kill him just a moment ago, and John agreed before he even thought about it. And when he stood up, he knew that there was no way back.

"If you want me to", he said.

"Of course", Sherlock replied, taking his coat from the rack. "I'd be lost without my blogger", he added with a slight smile, and John took it as an apology.

When they were going down the stairs, John couldn't help grinnning. He felt a bit light-headed after this quick succession of different emotions, and he got up just two hours ago.

"What's so funny?", Sherlock asked.

"Nothing, I'm just glad you're okay", John replied.

"I'm glad you came back", Sherlock said, turning to meet his eyes. John paused in mid-step. He backed off a bit, then took a step towards Sherlock.

"Did I hear 'sorry for shooting at the wall and behaving like a dickhead towards you, John'?", John mocked, walking on and passing Sherlock.

Before John could mock him any more, the words came.

"I'm sorry. That was not good."

John stood there with his mouth open. He had just made Sherlock Holmes apologize; that simply didn't happen. John could only see his elegant profile, as Sherlock's gaze was fixed on the stairs, but he didn't care anymore whether his expression was just one of his convincing acts or genuine remorse. He felt special and there was a warm feeling in his gut.

"I'm not angry anymore", he croaked when his voice came back. "I forgave you the minute I left. That's what friends do, right?"

"M-m. Friends", Sherlock repeated in a low voice, send John a smile that didn't reach his eyes, and turned to leave the house with John, who had just opened the door. "Come on, John, there is no time to lose!", he said, taking a step outside, the Sherlock from just a moment ago long gone both in his tone and expression. If John hadn't known better, he would have said it was a hallucination.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: As a form of apology for placing the wrong version of the previous chapter (re-read it if you haven't yet, at least the 2nd half of it), I put in a new chapter today. I hope you enjoy it, I tried to stick with the storyline in the series, and as I love imagining what happens when we don't see the chars, I liked writing this chapter. I hope you like it too - please review whether you do or don't :)**

* * *

What was that part about friends again? When the multiple shocks wore off (John was definitely too old for such amounts of psychical stimuli in such a short period of time), John was replaying the part about friends over and over again in his head. Sherlock didn't say anything when they were in the cab, and as soon as they got to the Yard, he busied himself with the new case and John didn't dare ask.

Why did Sherlock say that word in such a weird way? It was so much not like him to leave such double-entendres for John to stumble upon in his mind.

Maybe he didnt consider John his friend? After all, the guy had arch-enemies, so maybe he also had not-quite-friends?

They worked normally, although John's mind was occupied with another case to solve. But when Sherlock was opening the envelope with just a few graceful moves of his gloved hands, John couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight. He told himself that these leather gloves were the poshest thing ever, but he felt warm just thinking of how they would feel against his skin.

The thing that Sherlock got out of the envelope was the same phone as in the Study in Pink. After yesterday's quarrel about his blog, John wished so bad that no one would comment on that, but, as always, someone had to, and it was Lestrade who mentioned the excerpt that Sherlock didn't know that the Earth went round the Sun. John cast him a look that was meant to be menacing, but luckily Sherlock didn't pursue the topic further, concentrated on his work.

John decided that he had better concentrate on it to, if he were to be of any help, and he would ask Sherlock what he had meant when they are alone. He would ask whether he meant that John was his friend, or his enemy, or more than friend. On second thoughts, John crossed out the last idea. Even if Sherlock classified John as more than friend, John didn't reciprocate. He considered Sherlock a friend and that was why he cared about him.

* * *

The first opportunity to ask was at Bart's, where Sherlock was examining the shoes they found in their basement.

John started a small talk about the case, who the girl might be and how were they supposed to save her, but Sherlock was so focused on examining a sample under the microscope that he answered only with half of his attention. That was the only explanation for him saying what he said.

"You're not going to be of much use to her", Sherlock muttered, as if the girl was a piece of meat and not still a living person.

"Are they tracing it? Tracing the call?", John asked, supposing that maybe Sherlock had misheard him or that he attributed wrong intentions to him. He was simply worried about a young woman who might be dead soon because they were nowhere near solving the mystery, and what Sherlock said made him think for a moment that he considered it fun. And it was deadly serious. True, he cared about her, because she was going to _die_, for fuck's sake! If it was Sherlock who was dying, he would care too!

"The bombers too smart for that", Sherlock replied and his phone beeped at the same moment. "Pass me my phone", he added.

John looked around, searching for the phone. "Where is it?", he asked.

"Jacket", came the reply. It took John a while to process the word. The jacket was obviously worn by Sherlock at the moment, and John took a deep breath in order not to tell the bastard that he'd better take the phone out himself and then shove it up his ass.

Or maybe not.

John approached him, shoved his hand into the detective's jacket's pocket, earning an angry "Careful!" from him, and took way too long to retrieve the phone, as if the bastard put it that deep on purpose. He wanted to finish with it already, as he was standing so close that he could smell the damned expensive gay shampoo. He took a step back and looked at the screen.

"Text from your brother", he said, seing "Mycroft" written in the message bar.

"Delete it", Sherlock commanded.

"Delete it?", John repeated. Was that another round of sibling rivalry?

"Missile plans are out of the country now. Nothing we can do about it", Sherlock muttered, but John read the text anyway. Mycroft was asking about Westie's death. But apparently Mycroft thought otherwise as he had texted Sherlock eight times already, so it must have been important. He informed Sherlock of his doubts, and it finally tore Sherlock's attention away from the sample he was examining. "Then why did he cancel his dentist appointment? Mycroft never texts if he can talk. Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains, end of story. The only mystery is this: why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?"

"Try to remember there's a woman who might die", John replied, wanting to have the last word in just this one argument. Were there really no feelings in Sherlock Holmes? John was sure that if Sherlock's life was threatened, he would be crazy with anxiety.

"What for? There's hospitals full of people dying, Doctor. Why don't you go and cry at the bedside and see what good it does them?"

He was doing that again. Trying to humilate him, looking him straight in the eye. Sherlock and Mycroft had something in common, after all. John averted his gaze. He wanted to ask 'would you say the same if it was me?', but before he could get the words out, as at that precise moment the computer beeped and Sherlock gave out a little cry of excitement.

And that was when Molly stormed into the room, and John knew that he had just spent probably the only time alone with Sherlock for at least several hours on quarelling with him and trying to communicate his worries about a stranger instead of asking what he had been planning to.

But it was true, he was worried about a total stranger. And he was worried about Sherlock too, when something bad was happening. So the feelings were more or less the same; he knew Sherlock better, so of course he cared more. So maybe Sarah had been wrong; maybe it's not that he cares particularly for Sherlock, but that he cares for people in general? After all, he's a doctor and doctors should care for people...

After Molly came in, a guy who was obviously wearing a T-shirt that was a size or two too small for him, and Molly presented him as Jim from the IT, her new boyfriend. As always, she forgot John's name, which he gladly provided, still blaming himself a bit for losing so much time, quarelling with the detective.

Sherlock lost interest in Jim after a brief look, but Jim was apparently very excited about Sherlock. His voice was strange and he was making uneasy gestures with his hands, and talking all the time, and John could almost see Sherlock's annoyance gauge filling up as he listened to the guy with one ear.

"Gay", Sherlock stated, casting a glance at Jim.

"Sorry, what?", Molly asked, the wide smile fading from her face.

"Nothing, um, hey", Sherlock corrected himself, which was clearly a sign of social inclusion of the sociopath – he didn't want to hurt Molly's feelings in front of the guy. Jim smiled at him and leaned onto the table, knocking off a metal tray. He apologized at once with a nervous laugh, but John knew that Sherlock's annoyance gauge had just reached the red zone. He didn't want to look at what happened next. Luckily, Jim didn't linger there an more but left promptly, having agreed with Molly about their date later that night.

"It was nice to meet you", Jim said before he left. Sherlock of course didn't reply, but the guy wouldn't leave without it, so John said: "You too".

"What do you mean, gay? We're together", Molly asked when the door closed after Jim. That's how you ask people things. That's what John should have done earlier this afternoon, ask Sherlock what he meant by this "friends" thing straight away and not rely on small talk which caused Sherlock to belittle John's feelings.

"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly", Sherlock replied in his deep voice, "You've put on three pounds since I last saw you".

John saw Molly's chin twitch and he decided to act as Sherlock not only had just called her boyfriend a homosexual, which of course he would prove in a second, but moreover told her she got fat! That's not something you should tell a girl, even if her boyfriend made you hit the ceiling with his gayness. Today was apparently Sherlock's male PMS day.

"Two and a half", Molly made an attempt at regaining her self-esteem.

"No, three."

"Sherlock", John tried. Sherlock was apparently intent of making someone cry that day, and as he didn't succeed with John, he turned to attack Molly.

"He's not gay", Molly exclaimed, her voice already almost a sob. "Why do you have to spoil...? He's not!"

John thought for a moment that Molly would hit Sherlock on the head with the heavy microscope.

"With that level of personal grooming?", Sherlock asked. Molly was panting, at a loss for words.

"Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? _I _put product in my hair!", John said to give Molly a moment to regain her balance, and immediately regretted it as he thought of the bloody shampoo.

"You wash your hair, there's a difference", Sherlock replied at once with a smirk. "No, no, tinted eyelashes, clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines, those tired, clubber's eyes, then there's his underwear".

"His underwear?", Molly asked, an expression of disgust clear on her face.

"Visible above the waistline, very visible. Very particular brand".

John almost burst out laughing at the thought that Sherlock paid attention to other men's underwear, but first of all that was part of his job, and second of all he didn't want to trigger a similar deduction about himself.

"Plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish. I'd say you'd better break it off and save yourself the pain".

Molly stormed out of the room, furious. Sherlock looked after her, not astonished at all.

"Charming, well done!", John commented, hoping that this situation taught Sherlock something.

"Just saving her time, isn't that kinder?", Sherlock asked, turning towards John with a genuinely perplexed frown.

"Kinder? No, no, Sherlock, that wasn't kind", John told him as he would tell a kid or a puppy.

As a kind of topic change, Sherlock presented him with one of the shoes that they collected from the basement. "Go on then", he said. As John didn't catch what he was supposed to do, he precised, "You know what I do, off you go".

John pointed at the shoe, questioningly, and said "No". It was his turn to voice his refusal. If Sherlock wanted to behave like a spoiled brat, he would treat him as one.

"Go on", Sherlock wasn't giving up.

John finally said one of the things he wanted to say. "I'm not going to stand here while you humilate me while I try and disseminate-"

"An outside eye, a second opinion", Sherlock insisted. And John had already been so proud that he managed to express his feelings in such a clear manner. But there was no way out of it. At least Sherlock wanted to do something together, which was a signal that he probably didn't consider him an enemy. He looked Sherlock in the eye for a long while and he didn't see there any will to humilate him. It wasn't an apologetic look, but it wasn't menacing either.

And so he lost another chance of confronting Sherlock on the topic of his strange behaviour. And besides, Sherlock was totally concentrated on the case. So it might not have been such a good idea at that moment. John postponed the confrontation until the next opportunity.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: It took me such a long time because I got a new job as an English teacher so I didn't really have time to write! But it's getting near the ending, and as I already have the ending written, I know it will be awesome. Please enjoy and REVIEW! Reviews make me know that what I write here is even worth continuing! :)**

* * *

The case was so engaging that John soon forgot all that he wanted to ask or say, and when Sherlock cunningly sent him to Mycroft to deal with the portion of the case that was apparently too boring for him, John decided that he would postpone his questions further and instead take care of Westie's case himself. And he desperately needed something to do in order not to think too much about his doubts.

John was intent on not annoying Sherlock, so that they could get over the case as quickly as possible, save several human lives and probably himself from getting yelled at by the detective. The fact that he was actually a bit afraid of Mycroft made that even a greater challenge, but after the encounters he had already had with the man he concluded that the best strategy was to be polite towards him and keep the distance, just to be safe. And he did just that – he was overwhelmingly polite and gathered all the information he needed without making Mycroft suspicious. What he said had really moved it forwards and John felt the familiar rush of adrenaline when he went out of the office and hurried home to inform Sherlock on his findings.

In the meantine, Sherlock had discovered poison in Carl's shoes (brilliant, as always, John thought) and posted it on his blog, which stopped the clock and allowed the police to save the poor girl.

That was when John exhaled with relief and his mind surged back to the problem, taking an entirely new perspective. It was true that he succeeded in taking his mind away from finding the perfect moment to ask Sherlock what he meant at least for a few hours, but then the question struck him: why did he want to ask it at all? Why did he care about it?

The adrenaline was still rushing in his veins and he knew he wouldn't fall asleep anyway because of the questions in his head, so he made himself some tea, sat in his armchair and turned on the telly. There was some late-night shows featuring porn on several channels, commercials on the others and already outdated news on the rest. He turned the telly off, not wanting to watch any of them. Sherlock was lying on the couch on his back, clearly very much awake, as he was fidgeting constantly. John thought that that was why the man was skinny – he fidgeted so much that he burned a lot more calories than an average human being. John smiled at that and moved to gather his laptop and maybe write a post or two on his blog.

Of course Sherlock had been using his laptop when John was away at Mycroft's office. The web browser was open with several tabs, among them John's e-mail account. Sherlock had been reading John's unsent e-mails to Sarah again, and, as John noticed, even correcting them, pointing out the incorrectly used idioms in the comment section. How did he manage to squeeze that mundane activity between working out the case, John didn't even want to know unless he wanted to conclude that the guy was a robot.

After the adrenaline John could only smile at the screen and close the tabs. However, there was one more tab open that caught his attention and it was entitled "Coming out – how to do it without hurting yourself". Like, gay coming out.

It was nothing serious, just some kind of a set of advice directed towards people unsure of their sex orientation. But John was startled nevertheless. He had been unsure about his own orientation a few days ago, but he couldn't have left the tab open as he didn't even browse such sites... so it must have been Sherlock, probably leaving it open by accident, but on the other hand, accidents simply didn't happen to that man...

It suddenly dawned uopon John that maybe Sherlock somehow deduced his recent doubts about his sexuality and now couldn't find any other way to deal with the topic. After all, they had this conversation a long time ago, at Angelo's... when Sherlock did suppose that John was suggesting that they start going out together, which of course he did not, but nevertheless...

"Um, Sherlock", he started, earning a half-lidded glance from the detective. "I think you might have been using my laptop".

"Yes", Sherlock muttered, tapping a rhythm on the armrest with his toes, his face a mask of calmness with just a tiny smile playing on the corners of his lips after a case solved.

"There is a tab open, about, you know, homosexual coming out".

Sherlock's expression didn't change at all and he didn't reply.

"There'a a website on gay people open", John rephrased.

"I know", Sherlock spat. "If you need an explanation, I was researching the topic and I didn't close it, that's why it's open".

"Well, I've figured out that much", John said, skimming through the website and stopping for a second on the part that elaborated upon making it clear to one's friends that you might be gay. It was slightly unusual for Sherlock to research anything that was not scientific. "Why were you researching the topic?"

"I thought it might be useful", Sherlock replied, shrugging as much as his position on the couch allowed for. John knew that tone; Sherlock had used it earlier, with Mycroft. He was playing a game again.

"When?"

"I don't know, during cases, or something. Do you want some whisky?"

The change of topic surprised John and for a moment he was staring at Sherlock with his mouth hanging open, until he croaked, "Yeah, sure".

"You can pour one for me too, thanks".

That was typical. John sighed, took the whisky bottle from the shelf and poured two glasses. Only when he gave one of them to Sherlock did the detective sit up, inhaling the scent of the drink. John downed his own in one go, and caught a glimpse of Sherlock admiring the dark, elegant fragrance with his eyes closed. Soon, the whisky kicked in and John relaxed. Sherlock was taking tiny, elegant sips from the glass, his lips pressing softly against the brim, and his Adam's apple moving with each gulp. He was sitting on the sofa with his arm casually trown over the backrest and his long legs crossed.

"Are you aware of the fact that you are staring at me and it makes me feel uncomfortable, taking into account the fact that you had just skimmed through a page on gay coming out?", Sherlock asked suddenly, placing the glass on the coffee table.

John shuddered and focused back on reality. Was he just thinking of Sherlock's looks? He must be really tired.

"Well, actually, there was one thing that I wanted to ask you", he said, and finding out that it still sounded very gay, he added "but it has nothing to do with the site".

Sherlock looked at him. John tried to collect his thoughts. What he was planning to say was that when Mycroft came to their place and gave them Westie's case to solve, and when afterwards they were going out of the house, Sherlock thanked John for coming back, and when John said that was what friends do, Sherlock repeated the word "friends" with the strange look on his face.

But it sounded very silly. So silly, in fact, that John abandoned that plan. It was hard to abandon it after so many hours spent on thinking about it, but it was the only thing to do. He decided to start from a different point in time because he was tired now and maybe he was jumping to the wrong conclusions. He downed the second glass of whiskey and stood up.

"You still haven't asked me the question", Sherlock muttered, leaning his head back against the backrest.

John yawned. As he wasn't telling Sherlock what he used to want to say, he could as well not back off. "It's less of a question than of a remark, and I just wanted to say that I really think you're brilliant, with what you did with these shoes and how you connected all that and stuff".

Sherlock smiled and it made John think of a very satisfied cat. It was pleasant to look at; he wanted to make him do that again.

"You're staring again", Sherlock said.

"I like to see you smile", John blurted out before he could stop himself. Then he felt as if he was ready to die.

"It's still weird in the context of the site", Sherlock sneered again.

"Did you open the site just to have another go at humiliating me? I just wanted to say that you always frown and stuff and I really like to see a different expression from time to time, because you're really brilliant".

"Ok, I'm going to remember that the next time I confirm my genius", Sherlock finished his whiskey and resumed his horizontal position on the couch. "Good night, John", he said before assuming the thinking position. John shook his head and went upstairs.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Hello everyone and thank you very much for your reviews, likes and so on! :) I really appreciate that, as they help me notice what is good in my stories and what I have to work on. Enjoy the 8th chapter please! I know the story's building up very slowly, but I can promise you that this chapter brings about a small change :)**

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When John woke up, at first he basked in the feeling of finally having full five hours of undisturbed sleep. It had been too long without such a luxury; he had learned to appreciate these moments back in the army, when getting a decent amount of sleep was rare while concentration and physical awareness were crucial. So when his body could rest without awakening for several hours, it regenerated in fullest, and that was precisely how John felt – regenerated.

But then the memories of the previous evening came back rushing back to his brain and he felt suddenly a lot more awake. Did he just dream of having the conversation with Sherlock? He remembered that he was so sleepy that he couldn't think coherently, even then everything was a bit blurry; did they really have this conversation? Was the image of Sherlock indulging in the scent of whisky just another whim of his imagination, or was it real?

He inhaled and exhaled, trying to collect his thoughts.

It was real and he had been so tired that he didn't really care back then. But he did care now, he cared bloody much. He knew that feeling. It was more or less the same feeling as waking up after a night of heavy drinking with a person whom he didn't really recall meeting by his side. Only that the person whom he didn't recall was himself from the day before. What he felt was shame. He knew that logically there was no reason for him to feel ashamed, and yet he did. Even though he didn't do anything wrong, it was Sherlock who was again trying to humiliate him...

Or maybe it was the whisky. After all, he hadn't eaten in what seemed like forever, and he could really use some scrambled eggs now...

He dragged himself downstairs, only to find Sherlock already dressed and ready to go.

"Lestrade's just called, wants us at the Yard", he said, throwing John a ready-made sandwich in a paper bag.

"Can I dress up or is it really urgent?", John asked, at the same time astonished at Sherlock's thoughtfulness to get him something to eat even though he himself ate nothing, and a bit annoyed at the fact that he hadn't woken him up when Lestrade called so that he could at least take his time washing. So he just ran upstairs, dressed in the first things he found in the closet and rushed downstairs to brush his teeth, at least. He knew that the case wasn't finished, and that it was only the beginning of their adventure, but the evening put him so off-track that he had to mentally slap himself back into cooperation mode.

He munched on the sandwich in the cab, his mind still occupied with the events from the previous night, and as he summed them up, they didn't seem that disturbing: they had saved a human life, after all; or rather, Sherlock did. But John also had his five minutes of glory at Mycroft's, as he managed to get vital information out of the man. For a moment, he somehow overcame his fear of the Sherlock's brother, but that tired him so much that in the end, he could have again attributed wrong intentions to Sherlock. Maybe he really was consulting the website for some case, and he thought it was about his recent doubts that were virtually undetectable for Sherlock, as he wasn't gay, after all, so there could have been no signal.

Or could it? John remembered how Sherlock caught him staring twice yesterday, and it was the only time when the detective actually _said_ he caught him. There might have been plenty of times when John wasn't aware he was staring, but Sherlock was. However, the man was so fond of the attention of others that John could perfectly understand why he wouldn't want to spoil the moment of undisturbed admiration.

"John", Sherlock's voice reached his mind through the heavy cloud of swirling thoughts. He came back to the present moment just in time to notice that the cab had stopped in front of the Yard.

* * *

The case was getting more and more complicated, and John was getting more and more depressed at the mastermind's cruelty. How heartless must one be in order to dress innocent people in enough explosives to blow up a house and make them read the messages to the phone? That was sick. John had seen people being cruel to each other on the war front, but they were usually fighting for their lives, and here it was pure torture.

That. Was. Sick.

To make matters worse, to Sherlock, it was "elegant". John wanted to yell in his face that it wasn't elegant, it was twisted, but apparently the detective liked the fact that the whole thing was directed at him. He had the attention of a killer. John had never seen Sherlock that much excited in his life, but that wasn't something one should get excited about...

With such a monologue running in his head, John followed Sherlock everywhere when the next part of the case started with four pips and a photo of a car. It was abandoned at an explosion site, and of course John had no clue what was going on, but Sherlock at least did, so John didn't really have any other choice than to follow from the Yard to the explosion site, in the meantime earning some bitter remarks from Donovan and trying to be of as much help as possible just to finish the case quickly, and finish Sherlock's sick excitement.

He told himself that he couldn't stand that Sherlock was so excited over something that was so cruel and twisted. But somewhere deep in his soul was the realization that in fact he missed having Sherlock all to himself, be able to talk with him about things other than cases... Of course, the adrenaline rush was something that couldn't be replaced, but John already had a different stimulus for the production of this hormone.

And he didn't like it at all.

He noticed it when they were riding a police car to the explosion site where Lestrade stated the car was. There were three of them packed in the rear seat of a car, and John was squeezed between Sherlock and sergeant Donovan. Sherlock's body was warm and that heat made John relax. As Lestrade was babbling about what he learned about the car from his people, John felt drawn to the faint scent of Sherlock's (goddamned) shampoo. The scent made him turn his head to inhale even more of it, and at the same time Sherlock turned to say something to him, and suddenly their faces were much too close, their noses almost touching.

They were too close for a second too long. And in this second John's eyes studied Sherlock's eyebrows drawn up in surprise, his lips that were parted as he had opened his mouth to speak, and then they both turned again to look in the other direction. John bit his lip nervously, feeling his heart beat like crazy and a blush crawl up his neck, and he saw Sherlock take off his scarf, clearing his throat. Was it only to expose that goddamned long neck?

Was Sherlock that long and lean _everywhere_?

If John's mind wasn't already freaked out with what had just happened, that one more thought sent a jolt straight to his nether regions. He closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing, but with every breath he was indulging more and more in the scent of the shampoo with a touch of cigarette smoke...

It was intoxicating. John knew he shouldn't like it. The guy was a freak, just as Donovan had said. John followed him only because he liked the mystery, and he admired the way he solved the creepy puzzles, saving people and all, but that one was just twisted and he would feel so happy and relieved when it ended.

* * *

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed! :)**


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: A gift for you, another chapter of the fic! Due to the long weekend in Poland, I've managed to at least write a draft version of the remaining chapters, so expect more soon ;)

* * *

No, John followed him because he liked him. That was what he came up with when he saw the sun rise in the east the following morning.

The man wasn't a freak. It was just how he was. He got excited with murders and other creepy things, but he was a good man. He did things that were bad or illegal, and he was a pain in the ass to be in the same room with, but somewhere in his heart there was goodness. John wouldn't follow him around if there weren't.

And John had to admit that he got excited by creepy murders too, so if Sherlock was a freak, then he was one too.

John also got restless when bored, although he somehow restrained himself from things that were not accepted by society. He also had seen things in his life that he would rather like to forget, and he knew that these experiences was what made him a good doctor, even if they scarred him mentally. He knew that Sherlock needed him in his work because of that, even though he didn't seem to be grateful at all. He needed him because they were so much alike.

John felt a connection. From their first meeting, he could feel that this man was someone who would understand John completely, unlike the rest of the world.

That was it.

And besides, he really liked how Sherlock smiled after having succeeded in solving the puzzle with the guy in Picadilly Circus. And he appreciated that when the excitement subsided a bit between parts of the case, Sherlock agreed to accompany him to lunch at Speedy's. And he was nice to him.

Sherlock was staring at John as he ate. The food wasn't that good, but it was acceptable, and it gave John the portion of nutrients that he desperately needed after running all day and all night on a sandwich that wasn't even that big.

After John was done with devouring as much of the chicken stew as he could to satisfy his hunger and was simply filling his stomach up with what remained, he decided to ask Sherlock a question that was in his mind since the morning with Lestrade.

"Has it occurred to you-"

"Probably", Sherlock interrupted.

"No, has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope, breaking into the other flat, the dead kid's shoes, it's all meant for you".

"Yes, I know", Sherlock replied with a small smile and John could see that his eyes lit up when he said that. As he expected, all that attention flattered him.

"Is it him, then? Moriarty?", John asked. They didn't have a moment to talk about it before, and John had his own theories when it came to the case; of course he wasn't thinking only about Sherlock. Solving the cases was also his job.

"Perhaps", the detective replied just as the phone beeped. There were three pips this time and a photo of Connie Prince, whom John recognized from the TV, and he felt very proud that he knew more than Sherlock again. Sometimes the knowledge of popular culture was needed, and he couldn't miss the curiosity with which Sherlock observed him when he went to turn on the TV in the bar. The Connie Prince show was on.

Then the pink phone rang and they were on a case again.

* * *

This time they didn't succeed. The old, blind lady that was the victim this time started describing the mastermind's voice... and he blew her up, along with twelve other people living in the same block of flats.

That was sick as hell. How many more people had to die for the sake of the bloody game?

The next morning, the explosion was all over the news. The news reporter's cold voice recalling the events was one thing, but then it turned out that Sherlock really did regard it as a matter between the bomber and himself and not an issue that concerned real human beings. All the people who died or most probably got mental disorders as a consequence of the events were simply pawns in their game of genuises.

That John Watson could not stand. Someone was playing a game out of some sick kind of boredom, and Sherlock was playing along.

And just the previous morning he thought that the guy was good.

Apparently, it was a huge misunderstanding between his heart and his reason, especially as Sherlock said that caring about the people who could die doesn't help them, which of course was true, but it was simply heartless to say that out loud. Moreover, he said he found that _easy_. He said that he's not a hero, and heroes don't exist anyway. He basically said that he was above them all this shit that was happening.

John wanted to ask what Sherlock would do if it was him who was on the other side of the phone, reading out the text. Would he not care? John thought he did mean something to the guy, but apparently he was mistaken. If he was blown up to pieces just as he had already imagined several times, Sherlock would simply admit that it was a side-effect.

John felt like crying when the phone rang. This time it was a photo of the Thames, but it didn't matter. John wanted just to punch Sherlock in the face instead of helping him, was that too much to wish for? He felt his face was hot with anger, and his jaw was clenched tight. He was shaking a little bit, his hands clenched on the backrest of the armchair.

And Sherlock expected him to help. When he refused, he ridiculed him even more, seeing that he was angry with him. Not angry; disappointed. Yes, John was disappointed, because he thought there was some higher motive behind Sherlock's actions. But there was none, it was only his ego that he cared about. Sick bastard. Twisted, cruel bastard.

But John couldn't help it then. He decided he would confront him later, when the case was solved; he would ask whether Sherlock would care if it was him who was in the victim's shoes. Or Sherlock who was. But in that case he would probably be excited, as twisted as his mind was.

So John sat down again and checked out the papers lying on the coffee table. He should have known better than to get all worked up because Sherlock showed symptoms of being a sociopath yet again; he had told him himself that it he was diagnosed with that, and besides it wasn't the first time Sherlock got him furious. And John had already thought that the quicker it finishes, the better for both of them.

He should have run out of the house.

He should have punched him in the face.

He should have yelled at him.

He should have moved out.

But he didn't, and he still wasn't sure why.

* * *

**A/N: Don't worry too much about the slow pace of the story, please.**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: AAAAnd another chapter. :) Let me know if I do something wrong. I'm not the best at writing long stories, and I feel I might have been building up the suspense for far too long...**

* * *

Despite their morning quarrel still not solved, Sherlock didn't humiliate John further that day. He didn't, in fact, talk to him too much. It bothered John beyond measure, and when Sherlock made John go alone to the gallery attendant's place, John was even grateful for the opportunity to spend some time away from Sherlock, being at the same time glad that he could do something by himself to help solve the case, and still disturbed with the thoughts that haunted him since the morning. That Sherlock was not only a sick bastard, but also could be dangerous.

John needed time to think about all of it again. It wouldn't bother him that much if he reacted normally to Sherlock's presence. If his senses weren't on alert every time that he touched him, by accident or not. If his heart didn't beat faster at the sound of Sherlock's deep voice when he was deep in thought. If he didn't miss Sherlock already when they were not together for just a few hours, and if he didn't miss the good old days when everything was normal and there wasn't any creepy case to solve...

But he needed time, so after visiting the gallery attendant's place, he started solving Westie's case by himself. He went to the house Andrew West lived in with his girlfriend; she was severely depressed and crying all the time, and after John had talked to her, he was confronted with her brother, Joe, and gathered what he thought was a bunch of good pieces of information, but when he met Sherlock in the evening, he scolded him anyway for not finding out anything of use.

John wasn't angry anymore. It subsided throughout the day, as he noticed, and he felt that everything was more or less back to normal. At least Sherlock talked to him in the normal way and there was no tension, no new unspoken words between them. He recalled how Sherlock had connected the gallery attendant's death to the fake painting, and it didn't cease to astonish him yet again how brilliant the man was. It was all right again.

Sherlock used his homeless network to find out that they were to go to Vauxhall Arches. John didn't really follow his train of thought, but he knew that he was probably right about that. When they were walking between the concrete columns, Sherlock said something that almost made John trip over his own feet

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

The stars were indeed beautiful, and it was one of the rare places in London where you could see them, because the arches blocked most of the lamplight. It would be romantic if it wasn't a meeting place for the homeless.

John smirked and replied, "I thought you didn't care about-"

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it", Sherlock cut him off. Apparently, there was still part of Sherlock that John didn't know. Or maybe showing him the stars was sort of an apology on his part; after all, John would never come here by himself to see them, so it was a kind of Sherlock-only place. He let him into his own world for a split second. Even though that part of Sherlockland was dirty, graffiti-covered and very smelly, it was to be appreciated.

John made a mental note of that and continued summarizing to Sherlock what he had learned about Alex Woodbridge earlier that day, along with the fact that Woodbridge had had a message from a professor Cairns on his answering machine. Sherlock led the way and in turn explained to him a bit how his homeless network worked, and that was when John saw that there were homeless people everywhere around, with their shopping carts stolen from shops, without teeth and probably arms and legs, filthy and reeking and everything...

But that wasn't what Sherlock was looking for. That was the network; despite their looks, those people wouldn't harm him if he was with Sherlock.

What he was looking for showed itself a moment later, when John saw the Golem.

They both hid behind a corner. The Golem was a giant man, and there was a shadow of him on the wall. There was no way they could take him down by themselves, and John reached instinctively for his gun. It seemed so small compared to the size of the man, but it would probably be of some help...

It was too late anyway; the Golem started running away, they followed at their top speed, but he got into a car that drove off immediately.

Sherlock was furious, but John already had an idea where the Golem might have gone; he once again felt that he was indispensable for the case, as he remembered the name of the professor and somehow knew that the Golem went after her, and this reassured Sherlock. John felt needed, which wasn't a frequent feeling for him.

* * *

At the planetarium, on the stage of the amphitheatre, John thought he would literally shit his pants when the Golem appeared out of nowhere, having strangled Professor Cairns. The tape she was watching was spooling back and forth, all the buttons pressed, and he could only see the monster in the moments when the projector was playing the tape and lighting up the room.

When the giant caught hold of Sherlock, John reached for his gun, because that was the only way he could save him. Sherlock's eyes were wide open with fear and surprise. The Golem was at least a foot taller than Sherlock, and his hands were so large and strong that even when Sherlock struggled, he could hardly do anything.

John called the Golem, aiming at him. "Let him go", he said menacingly, although he himself was scared out of his wits, "or I will kill you". The cold metal in his hand was what reassured him. He felt like back in the army.

The Golem jumped at him when the tape spooled, but Sherlock was already there, trying to knock the giant out and of course standing no chance against him as the giant simply pushed him to the floor with one hand and started trying to strangle him again. John jumped onto the giant's back and put a guillotine lock on his neck to at least distract it. He hoped so bad that Sherlock would understand that his gun was there somewhere on the ground, and as brilliant as he was, Sherlock understood and just when the giant threw John on the ground with all his force, squeezing the air out of his lungs, Sherlock started shooting.

The projector blinded him and he missed.

John was lying on the ground, trying to assess his injuries and get up at the same time. A hand, clad in a leather glove, appeared in his sight.

He grasped it and got up. It was another apology and a thank-you. He knew Sherlock too well to interpret it otherwise.

"If it makes you feel better, I was scared too", Sherlock said simply, still a bit shaky after almost meeting death.

"Yeah, I know", John said, sending him a smile. "At least your shooting at the wall finally came of use".

Sherlock grinned at him. The tape was still spooling back and forth, they were standing there, panting, and there was a bruise forming on Sherlock's cheek; they were just grinning at each other.

John gulped. He was feeling like that again: his heart beating; his palms sweating; his throat dry. He clenched and unclenched his fists. They were so close to each other that John had to look up a bit to meet Sherlock's eyes.

"Um, Sherlock", he started, pointing to his face. "You might have a bruise later... just here", he brushed the place with his thumb. Sherlock didn't take a step back. It was awkward. It must be a dream. Or he must be dead and seeing things. What the fuck was happening?

But it was real. Sherlock looked at his hand, as if he could see the bruise on his face. John licked his lips when his eyes returned to meet his own.

"Doesn't matter", Sherlock spat, suddenly not grinning anymore, and stormed out of the planetarium so quickly that John had to run to catch up.

* * *

The Vermeer painting was a fake because the supernova depicted in it appeared in the sky two hundred years later than it was allegedly painted.

John was shaking with stress when Sherlock guessed and stopped the kid counting. It had to be him, because if the museum custodian told him, the case would be spoiled. After all, some knowledge of astronomy was useful at times...

Lestrade was squeezing John's upper arm in the meantime so tight that John felt his fingers go numb. He eventually let go when Sherlock handed him the phone to find out where the kid was.

When the first shock wore off, John couldn't help but be astonished at how quickly Sherlock connected facts in a field he had no clue about. The man was, again, brilliant. He was brilliant and twisted at the same time, but having seen him so frightened back there in the planetarium only made John want to do something so as to not see him like that again.

In fact, it made him want to hug him, pat him on the head and tell him that everything was alright and John was there with him. When John found that out, it only added to the sum of surprises that day; what the hell was happening to him again? Was he becoming a sentimental pussy?

When Sherlock and Mrs. Wenceslas went to the Yard to discuss everything with Lestrade, John decided that he wasn't that much needed as Sherlock already knew everything he had to about that case. So, urged on by a text message from Mycroft, he proceeded with Westie's case.

And he had some time to think then. Things were spinning out of control. That thing in the planetarium. It was just like a scene from one of those crappy novels for teenagers that Harry had read when she was younger. He had already decided that Sherlock turned him on; there was no other name to that and he had to deal with it. But guys never before had turned him on; it was only women, with their curves, and boobs, and _vaginas_, for fuck's sake... There was no way that he could fuck a man in his _ass_.

He talked to the guy at the railway station who showed him to the place where Westie was found. He had to concentrate of the task at hand now, and as he found out that there was no blood on the tracks, and the station guy left him, he heard a well-known voice behind him. He jumped up.

And he had thought he could think a bit without Sherlock hanging around.

"I knew you would get there eventually", Sherlock said. It was almost a praise. "West wasn't killed here, that's why there was so little blood".

"How long have you been following me?", John asked, a bit taken aback by the sudden appearance and the fact that it was now obvious that Sherlock was spying on him _again_.

"Since the start", Sherlock replied. John knew that. "You don't think I'd... give up on a case like this just to spite my brother, do you?"

And there John was thinking already that he managed to do something by himself, but it had been Sherlock all along. Somehow, it didn't piss him off as much as he expected it to.

"Come on, we've got a bit of burglary to do", Sherlock said, walking away again. And John followed. Again.

* * *

Breaking into Joe's flat was one of these things that John had thought he could never possibly do in his life. It was exciting, in a sick way. Those were the moments when John understood why Sherlock got excited over illegal things; it was the fact that they were illegal.

John's gun came of use again, but Joe didn't oppose them too much, he was just scared at first, and then he told them everything, including how he got the plans and then killed his prospective brother-in-law... it was all an accident. The guy was simply scared. That of course didn't make him any less guilty, but it at least didn't disturb John as much as the outward cruelty of the mastermind of this whole game.

This part was finished. The plans were there, in Sherlock's coat pocket.

And as the bomber hadn't contacted them by then, John thought he would have some time to think it all over again. He had to do something about the swarm of thoughts repressed in his mind or otherwise he would go crazy.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: To everyone who's reading that, today's your lucky day. Another chapter is here! I've been working on that chapter since I started writing the fic, so please review and tell me what was good and what was not. I would appreciate that. Also a big THANK-YOU to everyone who has liked, reviewed or is following the story! You make me want to write more :)**

* * *

Sometimes, there are moments in everyone's life when all that you believed in, that you _knew_ about yourself, shatters into thin pieces and you have to rebuild everything from scratch.

These moments sometimes come out of nowhere, as a result of revelations that have built up for a long time.

It hurts. It's like some great power was trying to weed all those lies that had been rooted in your heart since you can remember, without anesthetics. You start remembering things that caused you to think what you think about yourself, about the world, about other people. You talk to yourself back then and weep because somewhere in between then and now you lost the truth and gave in to the thorny tangle of lies. You tried to build your fucking _personality _on lies. You tried to built your _true self _on what isn't even _true_. How painful can such a realization be?

John Watson had one of these moments when he left Sherlock to go back to their place and went to the park to rethink all that had happened in these previous weeks. He was sitting on the bench, his elbows on his knees, face hid in hands, and frame trembling with sobs.

He just wanted to think, and then it came out of nowhere. He wasn't expecting to cry. He was just expecting to sit there and think and then come back home and everything would be normal.

Except that it wouldn't be normal. Not with what had happened in his mind. He was attracted to Sherlock Holmes. He was attracted to a freak. He was sexually attracted to another man. He didn't know which one of these was the worst.

It was just because he was such a wreck when he came back from Afghanistan. He wanted to start again, to be who he really wanted to be for all of his life, but the sad truth was that who he really wanted to be was different from who he really _thought _he wanted to be.

He always somehow got by. He liked socializing from time to time, having a beer or two with his pals. He wanted to build a steady relationship with a girl, maybe somewhere in the countryside. He was the sitting type, with his faulty leg and everything. And that was it – boring. Dull. If he hadn't met Sherlock, his life would probably be like that and he would grow old with the feeling that he had missed something along the way.

He recalled the times when he was in high school, and his mum was still alive. Mums know things, and his mum always knew when something was wrong. She couldn't always help, but he was aware that she knew, and moreover, she usually knew more than anyone else, usually including John. Even if she didn't tell him, he knew that if he asked, she would give him the courage to solve the problem. When mum died, there was still Harry, but it just wasn't the same. Harry was rebellious, egoistic and John was terribly afraid that she would make fun of him. She simply didn't care, even though everyone cared about her, and for John that carelessness was what discouraged him from discussing his problems with her. And it still did; if he noticed that anyone was careless, he immediately though lower of the person.

There was this one time when sixteen-year old, spotty John decided that since everybody had a girlfriend, he would gladly have one too. He invited a Mary for coffee. It was a proper date, she liked him, so they went out a couple of times more. Then, one particularly beautiful autumn evening, John was walking her home, having really enjoyed the time he spent with her in the park, collecting leaves and feeding ducks and squirrels, and when they were about to part, Mary stood on tip-toe and kissed John. And John took a step back, breaking the kiss before it even began. He was so startled that he couldn't utter a word when Mary, with a sad look on her face, fled towards the door of her house. When the door slammed shut, he called after her, but she didn't come back. When he came home, he tried phoning her once, twice, and she finally picked up after the tenth time.

"Why did you back off?", she asked.

"I don't know", John replied, and it was true. He did want to kiss her. It was just that something went wrong.

"I really liked you", Mary said. She made a long pause. "But I don't think that you feel the same towards me. I can't take this uncertainty anymore, so let's break up."

John's mouth was dry. He didn't know what to say.

"Goodbye, John", and she hung up.

John held the beeping telephone in front of his face for a long while. He felt horrible. Humiliated in his own eyes. He couldn't even maintain a two-week relationship with a girl. What was the actual point of even starting if you can get this much hurt in the outcome?

He noticed that his face was wet. He dried the tears off with his sleeve and went downstairs. His mum was sitting in the kitchen and when he saw her, for a moment he considered going back to his room. But he didn't; he straightened his back and went to the fridge to get some comfort food.

Mum said nothing. John half-hoped that she would ask him a question that he could answer with a word or two and everything would be back to normal. But she said nothing, and John could feel tears running down his face again. He sniffed involuntarily, wet drops dripping onto the box of ice-cream he retrieved from the freezer.

Mum stood up and took the box from him. She found a spoon, divided the vanilla ice-cream into two large portions and put them into bowls that she then put on the table. She didn't say anything, but John started talking anyway.

"Mary broke up with me", he said, trying to make his voice sound less whiny and failing miserably. He felt his mouth twist in sadness. "The date was OK, but then she tried to kiss me and I backed off".

John devoured a spoonful of ice-cream, relishing in the sweet taste of soft vanilla-flavoured frozen cream, melting on his tongue. Mum's smile was warm and comforting. If he could just stay like that for his whole life, not having to face the reality without Mary again...

"John", mum said and John looked at her. "I know it's hard, breaking up and everything, but better ask yourself whether you want to be with a girl who breaks up with you just because you freaked out during your first kiss. I mean, she didn't even want to talk about that, did she?"

John cast a look at his mum and returned to his ice-cream.

"I don't know what I want now", he said in a low voice. "Now you say it, it seems perfectly logical that she's a dumbass, but still..." There was a long while of silence.

"Can you promise me that no matter what happens, you will never give up believing in yourself?", mum asked. John sent her a half-hearted smile, jabbing his ice-cream with the spoon. He wiped off another tear from his face. And from this day, John never gave up and always tried to express his feelings. At least tried. Not giving up was his strategy for finishing his studies, getting by in the army, surviving this long with Sherlock. Even though his self-esteem was quite low all his life, he managed to survive it somehow. And at least he knew that he could find a way out of every trouble, even if not as gracefully as he wanted at first.

Despite his mum's best efforts, the next day at school was horrible. All of Mary's friends seemed to think that John was most certainly gay (because of course she told virtually everybody about the kissing incident), and some of his mean classmates copied them. It resulted in making John's already weak self-esteem plummet, so when he came back from school, mum knew already what was the outcome of the kissing incident.

"Why don't you try dealing with it slowly? They will soon get bored and forget all about it. Kids can be mean, you know", mum was chattering while washing the dishes. John was leaning against the kitchen counter, feeling very depressed. To make matters worse, the whole stress made his acne more visible, which of course only encouraged his classmates to make fun of him.

"I will show them that I'm not gay", he murmured.

"Don't", mum replied simply, and explained under John's questioning look: "You don't have to prove anything to them. Whatever you do in life, do it only for yourself, and not to please anyone or show them that they were wrong. If they are, they will see it themselves in the right time. But first of all you have to know what you really want, remember? And then pursue it just for good causes, okay? Just ask your conscience if what you are doing is good".

John nodded in silent approval. He felt a tiny bit better, as if he saw the first shy sun-rays peeping from behind a cloud after a whole day of storms.

As John remembered these two conversations, he knew that he was unfair towards his mum. Of course he did always do his best and never gave up in anything, which sometimes meant doing the craziest things in the world, but all the time he was trying to prove... what? That he didn't admire Sherlock? That he wasn't gay? That he was okay in his relationships? That he was okay with working as a GP throughout all his life? All that meant that he was living one giant lie, because he didn't take into consideration even the slightest chance that he might have fallen in love with the only consulting detective in the world at some point, and to make matters worse, fall in love completely and madly.

The statement made him look at his life from a new perspective, from a distance that was totally unknown for him as for then. He had always thought he was as straight as he could possibly be (the army was a school of hard knocks when it came to being gay), but now it turned out that he was feeling manly and at the same time in love with another man. Moreover, he felt as if deciding on admiring him was the manliest decision of his life, or at least the truest one.

Then he remembered every single time that someone supposed that he was gay or that Sherlock and he were a couple. It hurt again, because now he knew that they _saw _that he admired him. Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Angelo... the list was long. He remembered the time when he asked Sherlock whether he had a girlfriend and he said that it wasn't his area, and then he asked whether he had a boyfriend and Sherlock had this weird look on his face, and said that he was married to his work and that he wasn't looking for any kind of relationship because he misunderstood John... or did he? But that didn't matter then.

He was so proud of himself that it wasn't his therapist who told him that.

John closed his eyes and imagined that his mum was there with him. What would she say? She would know that something was wrong. Probably she would say that it didn't matter whether it was a man or a woman; that the only thing that mattered was that John was sure of it and wanted it. But John wasn't sure what exactly he wanted. He just knew that all those weird situations that seemed to multiply during the last few weeks were a result of him totally misinterpreting his feelings.

But... there was one thing that he wanted. No, actually two, the first one to always think like his mum did, and the second one was to make Sherlock happy, even if it meant not seeing him ever again if Sherlock couldn't stand his revelations. He was at last true to himself, and if Sherlock couldn't accept that, fine. But he also had to thank Sarah for making him come to such conclusions at last. Even though everybody made such comments, she was the one who pointed out to him that all these times that he was angry at Sherlock, he forgave him at once, and when Sherlock was angry at him, or behaving in a strange way, he spend way too much time trying to decipher what he really meant, and usually failed miserably, but he wanted everything to be alright between them. And despite the fact that sometimes Sherlock got him at his wits' end, John always came back. He wanted to come back. He wanted to stay. He wanted it all, even to have Sherlock make him furious, because that was what gave meaning to his life. Otherwise, he would be the GP with three children, living in the countryside and wondering what the hell went wrong.

All that he thought of Sherlock, and that he did, was not what you do when you are friends with another person; it's what you do if you are in love with them. And it doesn't matter whether it's a man or a woman. At least, it didn't matter for John anymore.

"Thank you, mum", John said, wiping the tears off his face again. He felt like jumping and prancing around just to get back to Baker Street and...

Exactly, and what then? Sherlock still had all his attention on the case. John couldn't just tell him straight away that he was in love with him. He would do it just after they finish the case. When everyone is safe and has plenty of time to discuss it. It wasn't postponing a very important conversation; it was his conscious decision not to distract Sherlock, as he still didn't know how he would react.

He remembered Sarah again. Their relationship became a little bit complicated with that whole thing about Sherlock, but John only smiled when he extracted his phone from the pocket of his coat. Sarah had already known, hadn't she? She was just waiting for John to decide what it was. And he decided.

He texted Sarah, asking whether he could drop by that evening. She agreed.

He was in love. He was in love. He was in love again. He was in love with the world's only consulting detective. He was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

He felt like if he was sixteen again.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Hello again, I bring you another chapter :) Thank you all for your lovely reviews, I really appreciate every signal that the story isn't complete crap, and I would like to encourage you to leave comments also about what you don't like! Concrit is what makes everyone here a better writer. **

* * *

Having decided that it was of utmost importance not to distract Sherlock during this very demanding case, as John's sudden revelation might have an outcome that was undesirable and unfavourable (which in practice meant that Sherlock would just yell at him for trying to distract him and will most probably never talk to him again), John just wrote a draft note for his blog, of course not revealing anything then, while Sherlock was watching a TV show, with his legs drawn up (how on Earth could he be comfortable in such a position, being as long-legged as he was?!), wrapped tightly in his coat as if ready to go out at any given moment, and being very noisy about how the people on the show didn't see the obvious. Well, at least he wasn't shooting the walls or setting fire to their kitchen table. The pink phone was lying on the armrest, waiting for another message.

"I knew it was dangerous", John stated after a particularly loud outburst from Sherlock. "Getting you into crap telly".

"Not a patch on Connie Prince", Sherlock retorted.

"Have you given Mycroft the memory stick yet?", John asked, remembering the whole chaos with the tiny gadget.

"Yep. He was over the moon", Sherlock replied. John noticed that he was unnaturally agitated and in a partibularly good mood, but that was probably due to the excitement with the case that was still unsolved, as they still didn't know who the bomber was. Sherlock took an audible breath and continued, "Threatened me with knighthood... again".

"You know, I'm still waiting", John said, and maybe he imagined it, but it took a second too much for Sherlock to confirm his attention with a grunt. But that wasn't _the moment_ yet, it was still all in the planning phase. "For you to admit that a little knowledge of the solar system and you'd have cleared up the fake painting a lot quicker".

"It didn't do _you_ any good, did it?", Sherlock sneered.

"No, but I'm not the world's only consulting detective". John knew that he would miss those bickerings if Sherlock turned out to be a homophobe. Or rather a Johnophobe.

"True", Sherlock muttered, his eyes once again on the telly.

John cleared his throat and closed his laptop. "I won't be in for tea", he said. "I'm going to Sarah's. There's still some of that risotto left in the fridge", although he knew that Sherlock wouldn't eat it, "Erm... Milk! We need milk", he muttered, pulling on his coat and making a mental note to buy it either on his way back or in the morning.

"I'll get some", Sherlock said before he even finished. John first thought he misheard, but he didn't.

"Really?", he asked, grinning. It was so unlike Sherlock, and yet it was very nice of him to do such chores instead of making John do them. It seemed that Sherlock desperately needed something to occupy himself with while waiting for another puzzle to solve.

"Really", the detective replied, and John decided to try his luck a second time.

"And some beans, then?"

Sherlock grunted in approval, nodding his head, and John was free to go.

It was ten o'clock already and quite chilly outside. John, despite being at last true with himself and in perfect harmony with his heart, had to remind himself that he was going to Sarah's place to, well, break up with her. He would tell her that she was gorgeous, and smart, and beautiful, and so understanding, and that he really had been looking forward to their relationship blooming, but it was in fact her who made him realize that it was not meant to be, because she herself could see that Sherlock meant a lot to him, and even though it was a bitter ending to such a relationship, John was really grateful to her for making him realize that and still wanted them to be friends, because that had already been basically the base of their relationship. It was quite disappointing that they didn't make it to sex, but maybe it was better that it finished now and not when it became even more complicated?

Thus lost in thought, John turned a corner and was greeted with the sight of a black car slowing down just beside him. He slowed down too. There was no living soul on the street. The car had mirror windows, so he could see nothing of the inside. At first he thought it was Mycroft's doing, but he changed his mind when a window rolled down and an unknown voice from inside spoke to him.

"Either you get in yourself or we make you do it".

Mycroft wouldn't be that outright, would he?

John felt his heart fasten its pace, as it certainly was one of these classic dangerous situations that every schoolteacher had to discuss with the kids, and he walked on, pretending not to have heard, but the car followed him. He reached for his gun, but it wasn't there – he didn't take it as he was only going to Sarah's. And now he couldn't even go to Sarah's place as that would put her at risk, he couldn't text anybody because they would see and could possibly shoot him (he felt a painful jolt in his shoulder at that thought), so the only possible solution was to get to the Yard as soon as possible, but without running as that would be suspicious too. So he simply walked on, never letting the car get out of his sight.

But soon a man jumped out of the car, apparently taking his behaviour as a no. John turned to defend himself with a fast blow to the guy's sensitive bodyparts, but his opponent had one major advantage in the form of a can of pepper spray. John ducked to avoid the stream of liquid capsaicin and hit the guy in the stomach with his head, but the offender was quicker and smashed the can on the back of John's head. Everything went dark.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Welcome the next chapter! There will be one more in this story, and maybe one day I'll write a sequel :) I hope you like it! Thank you for the reviews, likes, favourites and whatnot, please review more and tell me how you like this chapter. I generally suck at writing dialogues, and in this chapter they are abundant. It is also the longest chapter in the story, over 4k words. **

* * *

He was in love with Sherlock. He had realized that earlier that day, and it was the best feeling ever. He has to tell him as soon as possible when the case ends. He simply has to, he can't hide it anymore. It was that simple. It was good. Of course, there might be trouble afterwards, but now he was half-asleep and peaceful and-

There was a splash of cold water to his face.

That was enough to wake him up.

"What the fuck-", John started, opening his eyes. His head hurt terribly, he felt as if someone had dragged him around... he could smell chlorine. He was... at the swimming pool? That was the corridor that led to the dressing rooms; John had been there before, once or twice...

He wasn't half-asleep; he had lost consciousness and he was tied to a chair and there was Jim from Bart's IT department dressed in a suit and looking very smart and yet absurd. Why did he hold him captive? He was the gay IT guy, for God's sake, and not some fucking criminal who kidnapped people for ransom...

"Hello, Johnny boy", Jim said with that creepy smile of his. "Let's have some fun, won't we?"

He definitely wasn't as gay as he used to be, though his jacket folded somehow strange on his skinny chest. John tugged at the bonds, but it was of no use – the metal chain was pulled tight around his wrists. He knew there was a bulge forming at the back of his head; how long had he been unconscious? He had arranged a meeting with Sarah; she was probably worried already...

But what the hell was happening? Was he kidnapped for ransom? He had no big money himself, Harry wasn't wealthy either, that left them with Sherlock who was on the wealthier side... At least he doubted he was kidnapped to be a sex slave, he wasn't that good anyway, he wasn't even a virgin and not even a woman. He had to assess the situation. Observe, as Sherlock would say. Which would be easier if he wasn't starting to feel damn afraid...

He was wearing a coat that was definitely not his own. It was a few sizes too big. And there was something underneath it, but John wasn't sure what it was. A red dot of light was dancing on his chest. And there was something – a cable? - taped to his neck, and a tiny plastic thing in his ear...

And then he understood. He was another victim of the bomber, and the bomber was Jim. John wanted to hit him so much for killing all those people, for making them suffer, for making Sherlock, who was a good man after all, play that sick game with him, and for carrying out John's wish to try Sherlock's friendship by placing himself in the shoes of the victim... could he read his fucking _mind_?

This internal monologue must have shown on his face, as Jim's grin became even wider.

"Ohh, you know the rules", he piped with delight. "That's so much better, Johnny". The grin disappeared from his face in a split second. The guy was a skilled showman. "Pray that your boyfriend comes along soon or you will never see him again". John tugged against the bonds again.

"He's not my-"

"Na-ah, don't struggle or I will have to shoot you now and lose a valuable card in the game", Jim chanted.

"You think it's a motherfucking game, you-", John muttered through clenched teeth. He couldn't find an epithet that would do Jim justice. "You were behind all this! Fuck you! You're sick!"

"A dog that barks doesn't bite, Johnny boy", Jim chattered on, approaching John until his face was centimeters from John's. Then he pulled out a small microphone out of his jacket's pocket and blew into it. John winced at the loud and unpleasant noise.

That was it. He had no other choice but to play along; otherwise he will never get a chance to tell Sherlock about his revelations. He regretted so much not doing it earlier; he just hoped that Sarah would get so worried as to call Sherlock, and Sherlock would come and...

And John would still be unable to say anything else than what Jim told him. Those were the rules of the game. But he had to take the chance to survive this and then he would tell Sherlock straight away.

"Just a quick reminder", Jim said to the microphone, walking backwards out of the room. "Repeat everything word-for-word or I will shoot you. Don't move, unless I tell you otherwise, or I will shoot you. Don't try to help or I will shoot you. And when I shoot you, boom. That would be romantic, to die together with your boyfriend, wouldn't it?"

He was only a pawn in the game of geniuses, but at least he knew already on whose side he was. He had to play along with the enemy, but after all, he was on Sherlock's side. And Sherlock would know, wouldn't he? Or would he dismiss the whole incident as unworthy of his care and let John die there alone?

Anyway, it was worth trying. That was the only option that gave him a remote chance not to be blown into pieces.

* * *

John was released by the same guy that had attacked him and pulled into the car. John wanted to tell him something unpleasant so bad, but he couldn't, as the red dot was again indicating that he was being watched.

"Let the game begin", he heard Jim in his ear. "Walk slowly out of the room through the fifth door to the left".

As John opened the dressing room and walked into it, he could already hear Sherlock monologuing in the swimming pool area. He was obviously talking to the mastermind, accusing him of making him dance around instead of doing real work, and John suddenly felt very afraid. He knew the feeling from Afghanistan. It was one of those hopeless situations where he could simply do what he was told to do and pray that everything ends up well. He wanted so bad to yell that Sherlock should run away, that it was all a trap, but he knew that if he said so, Jim would first blow John into pieces, and then get hold of Sherlock and kill him anyway.

"Say evening", John heard.

"Evening", he said.

"Say: This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?"

_Oh, God. _

John hoped that his voice came out as unnatural as possible when he repeated, so that Sherlock would know that those weren't his words, that he was just another of these poor people...

He forced himself to look Sherlock straight in the face. He tried to stare at him in a way that would make him understand... but apparently he overestimated his powers of telepathy.

"John... What the hell?", the detective said in a low voice, as if his throat had gone dry and tight. Sherlock was disappointed. He was hurt. John wanted to scream that he's not behind it, that it was Jim, the one from IT, and that he was there, always faithful to him and that he would never-

But actually that was quite human of Sherlock. He had trusted John. Which meant that he cared. And now Jim wanted to shatter that trust, and that was unforgivable.

"Say: bet you never saw this coming", John heard and repeated. Sherlock approached him slowly, and John hoped so much that he had discovered that there was something wrong, that it wasn't John, that Jim was Moriarty...

"Open the coat and say: what... would you like me... to make him say... next", Jim chanted gleefully, and when John opened the coat, he saw two red dots of light dancing on the bombs. His palms were sweating and he was sure he was as pale as a ghost. His knees were weak.

Sherlock's eyes widened. He understood. He did.

Jim made John repeat "gottle o'gear" several times and John felt sick. Sherlock told Jim to stop, and he luckily did.

"Say: nice touch, this. The pool, where little Carl dies".

John repeated. Sherlock was approaching him, looking him straight in the eye, and it was somehow reassuring, confirming that he understood at last. The thought that Sherlock really might have suspected John even for a second that he could be behind all this was horrifying, but it was over; now Sherlock knew and he believed John, and he would come up with something to save them both...

"I stopped him. I could stop John Watson too. Stop his heart", as John was saying that, his mouth was going more and more numb with fear. The sniper was aiming at him and it would be so much worse than being shot... though at least it would be over in no time.

"Who are you?", Sherlock asked. Immediately there was a creaking of door and John heard Jim's voice not in the microphone anymore, but behind him. Yet he knew he couldn't move.

"I gave you my number, I thought you might call", Jim said from somewhere next to the door to the pool area. "Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?", he continued and John could hear him approach. He hated it when someone moved behind him, especially if he wasn't sure whether the person was armed or not. Sherlock reached to his pocket and pulled out the gun, John's gun. John was so glad that Sherlock took it. With it, maybe it would be possible to finish it a lot quicker...

"Both", Sherlock said, aiming the gun at Jim.

"Jim Moriarty. Hi", Jim said with cockiness that was terrifying because Sherlock was aiming at him. "Jim? Jim from the hospital?", he mocked the questions that he supposed Sherlock would be asking himself. Sherlock steadied the gun with his other hand. "Oh, did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that was rather the point".

Sherlock cast a quick glance at John. The red dot was still on his chest, John could see it. It was obvious that Moriarty wasn't holding the gun, that the snipers were somewhere there, and it would be no good if Sherlock shot Moriarty because then the snipers would simply shoot them until there was nothing left...

"Don't be silly, someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty", Jim confirmed John's speculations, changing his voice to a more serious tone. "I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see. Like you".

When Sherlock spoke, his voice was husky with... what? Was that anger? Disappointment? Hurt? Or everything at once? He sounded like if he wanted to cry.

"Dear Jim", he said, "please, will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister?"

John realized he was enacting the parts of the case from the point of view of Jim's clients.

"Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?"

"Just so", Jim replied, his voice a mocking chant again. It was so annoying.

"Consulting criminal", Sherlock concluded shortly. His hand shook slightly, but he steadied it once again. "Brilliant", he almost whispered, and John had to admit he agreed, but that didn't make him change his opinion that that was just plain sick.

John's mind drifted away from what was happening; he heard both men as if through a wall, so he tried focusing his attention on the red dots on his chest. He had met death in Afghanistan already and he had hoped he would never have to meet it again, but there he was, brushing against it, just after his life changed so much with the realization that he was in love with Sherlock Holmes... was it some kind of a punishment? Was he really that bad? John didn't really believe in any higher power, but that was plain ironic that he took such a long time to come to those conclusions and now he would take them to his grave.

But John wouldn't play death's game; he was already playing Moriarty's, and, as it turned out, it would be so much easier to outfox death than Moriarty. Death was simple and plain while people were twisted, cruel and egoistic, and Moriarty was the most twisted, the most cruel and the most egoistic man he had ever met.

He was brought back to reality by Jim yelling, "That's what people DO!". His voice echoed in the whole pool area.

"I will stop you", Sherlock said when the echoes subsided.

"No you won't", Jim replied, smug as ever.

Sherlock turned his head slightly to look at John. "You all right?", he asked curtly. John could only look at him, although he wanted to do so many things, but he couldn't...

"You can talk, Johnny boy, go ahead", Jim chanted, but John knew that he was only trying to make John break the rules of the game and get shot. He nodded his head slightly. He felt new strength enter his limbs; that was the point when he was no longer afraid; the hopelessness reached such a high level that John didn't care anymore, but had to do something or he would go crazy.

"Take it", Sherlock barked, extending his hand with the memory stick towards Jim.

"Oh", Moriarty approached him, and John prayed that he would take another step... "That? The missile plans", Jim kissed the memory stick. "Boring! I could have got them anywhere", with the words he threw the little gadget into the pool. That was John's chance – he ran towards Jim, jumped on his back and held him tightly, not really putting on a guillotine as the bombs were in the way, but holding him steady enough for him not to escape easily. It didn't help that Moriarty was taller than him and was standing straight while John was struggling to hold the grip on his neck.

"Sherlock, run!", John shouted. Sherlock still stood there, pointing the gun at Jim.

"Oh, good!", Jim laughed, "Very good!"

"If the sniper pulls the trigger", John said through clenched teeth, "Mr Moriarty, then we both go up".

"Ain't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around", Moriarty chattered to Sherlock, "But then, people get so sentimental about their pets...They're so touchingly loyal".

It pissed John off. He would strangle Moriarty to death if it wasn't for the snipers hid somewhere there, ready to kill them both if he tried anything.

"But whoops!", Moriarty yelled all of a sudden and made a move that threatened of throwing John into the pool. "You've rather shown your hand there, doctor Watson...", and as he said that, another red dot of light flickered on Sherlock's forehead.

If John carried on, Sherlock would be shot, and John simply wouldn't bear it. He let go of Moriarty, feeling the energy drain from him once again and the helplessness come back.

"Gotcha", Jim sang as John backed off. He brushed the lapels of his suit. "Westwood", he indicated. "Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?"

"Oh, let me guess. I get killed", Sherlock replied, the gun still pointing at Jim.

"Kill you? No, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway, some day. I don't want to rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no, no, no – if you don't stop prying, I'll burn you. I'll burn the _heart _out of you".

John couldn't see Jim's face, but he was surely showing off again. John wasn't even afraid anymore. He was furious, sick and hopeless.

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one", Sherlock said to him. John felt a pang of guilt at this one; he had told him that himself...

"But we both know that's not quite true", Jim said. John knew too. The feelings in Sherlock's eyes when he first saw John at the pool were an undeniable proof of his humanity. "Well, I'd better be off", Jim said all of a sudden. "Well, so nice to have had a proper chat".

"What if I was to shoot you now?", Sherlock asked quickly before Moriarty made a move to leave. "Right now?"

"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face", Jim replied. "Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock. Really, I would. And just a teensy bit... disappointed. And of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes".

Having said that, Moriarty approached the exit through one of the dressing rooms. His gaze lingered on Sherlock for a long time, as if he wanted to remember it well.

"Catch you later", Sherlock said slowly, drawling the words and still pointing at Moriarty with the gun.

"No you won't!", they heard before the door was slammed shut.

John thought he would faint, his sight went blurry. Sherlock looked at him and realized that, dropped the gun and crouched to strip him off the bombs, asking urgently, "All right? Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine, Sherlock", John replied, his mouth and hands numb, still standing only because Sherlock was tugging at his clothes. Sherlock pulled the coat furiously off him, as if it was burning, and threw it away on the ground. "Sherlock!", John called for the last time before his knees gave in and he leaned against one of the wooden partitions, and he realized thatSherlock had just almost stripped his clothes off just there, and then ran away somewhere, and John tried to steady his breathing, and Sherlock was back, still holding the gun and scratching the back of his head with it, and John wanted to tell him that it was dangerous to do that, but he only said, "Are you OK?"

"Me? Yeah, fine. I'm fine. Fine", Sherlock replied mindlessly, agitated so much that he was not only fidgeting, but was totally undone. John had never seen him in such a state. It wasn't unpleasant, just different. The detective was still holding the gun, pointing it around as he talked. "That, er, thing you... that you did, that um, you offered to do, that was, um good".

John had never before heard Sherlock speak in such a chaotic manner. He smiled. It could be called cute. Was now the right moment to tell him? How to start?

"I'm glad no one saw that", John muttered, remembering the coat lying there and how Sherlock pulled it off him. "You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool, people might talk", he went on, pulling his cardigan back on. That wasn't the best beginning ever, but for fuck's sake, he deserved to be able to say anything he wanted; he survived the whole thing and Sherlock too and the world was so beautiful and amazing and brilliant.

"They do little else", Sherlock replied and grinned at him. It was good. It was over. John felt light-headed. The danger was gone. He stood up and thought he would collapse again as he saw the red dots of light back on his chest.

"Sorry boys, I'm so changeable!", they heard Moriarty chime, back again. There were more dots, on Sherlock too. "It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it it my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue".

Now neither of them could move. Sherlock looked at John. John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock was afraid. John could see that. He was seeking support in John, and John nodded with silent approval.

"You just can't", Jim went on. "I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"

"Probably my answers has crossed yours", Sherlock said, his voice perfectly still, and turned to Jim, pointing the gun at the discarded bombs. Jim smiled. John gulped. That was their end. After all, it was quite romantic to die there, at least he was with Sherlock; maybe he would get to tell Sherlock he was in love with him somewhere on the other side?

John thought about his mum and that he would maybe meet her somewhere there and thank her for everything she ever taught to him; he didn't usually believe in life beyond death, but in moments like that all these beliefs faltered and you somehow _wanted _there to be something more than just that. Somewhere where all people go and they are peaceful at last and love each other. He was looking at Sherlock, wanting to remember him just as he was, proud, obnoxious, careless, egoistic, and at the same time brilliant and good-looking and smart and sometimes funny and intelligent as fuck and his best friend.

He wondered for a moment which adjectives would Sherlock choose to describe him. Would he say that he was his best friend?

And then a sound appeared. At first John didn't really register it and thought it was already his brain reliving his whole life, but then he came back to reality and realized it was Jim's mobile phone ringing.

Ironically, the ringtone was "Staying Alive".

Sherlock frowned and looked at John. Jim sighed.

"Do you mind if I get that?", he asked.

"No, please", Sherlock replied as if it was just a normal conversation, as if they hadn't been on the verge of death just a moment ago. "You've got the rest of your life..."

"Hello?", Jim answered the call. His voice was normal, without the mocking chanting. "Yes, of course it is, what do you want?"

It was absurd. John leaned back against the wall, somehow unable to breathe as much air as he wanted into his lungs. It was certainly too much for his heart, he wasn't _that _young anymore...

"SAY THAT AGAIN!", Jim yelled out of a sudden. John flinched. "Say that again, and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you, and I will skin you", he accompanied his words with an appropriate gesture. "Wait".

Jim ended the call and started walking slowly towards them. He was looking at the coat with the bombs. Sherlock steadied his grip on the gun.

"Sorry...", Jim said. "Wrong day to die..."

"Oh. Did you get a better offer?", Sherlock asked, still holding Jim at gunpoint.

Jim didn't answer the question. "You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock", he said simply, turning his back towards them.

John wanted Sherlock to shoot him just then, but Sherlock didn't, and probably it was lucky for them, as snipers must have been there still. Moriarty called the number again and simply went out of the pool area, talking to his phone, but not saying a word to them.

It was over again.

"What happened there?", John asked, having noticed he had been holding his breath.

"Someone changed his mind", Sherlock replied, turning to face him. "The question is, who?"

"Does it really matter?", John asked, feeling very much like laughing. He was still sitting with his back against the wall. He felt dizzy, very much so. It wasn't like just his head was swimming; it was as if though the whole world suddenly went into no-gravity mode. John had experienced that before in extremely stressful situations, and it meant only one thing – that he simply couldn't take it anymore, and if he was lucky, he would just burst into laughing and tears at the same time and make a total idiot out of himself, but that didn't matter.

And if he wasn't lucky, he could as well faint. He had seen people do both, and sometimes vomit or shit their pants too. That's what extreme stress did to the body. He tried to stand up, but apparently the no-gravity mode was still on. Somehow, instead of going further away, the tiled floor started to get closer.

He felt Sherlock's strong arms catch him before he hit his head on the hard tiles, and he tried to stop him, but it was futile, he was too weak. It had to pass by itself...

The hard, cold surface below his butt told him that he was sitting on the floor again.

"John!", he heard Sherlock shout, slapping his face lightly and shaking him by the shoulders.

"Oh, God, stop", John said, still trying to suppress laugh. "Stop shaking me, for God's sake!"

Sherlock stopped and instead caught John in a rib-crushing hug.

"That's not better", John wheezed, patting Sherlock on the shoulder. Yes, he did want to hug him, but not like that... and it didn't include death out of suffocation either.

Still holding him, Sherlock stood up and placed John on his feet. Then he let him go carefully, as if John could collapse again at any moment.

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God", John panted, holding on to Sherlock's arm.

"I thought you were an atheist", Sherlock remarked, drawing John's arm over his shoulders. "Let's get out of here".

"Is it really the right time to discuss my denomination or rather the lack of it?", John said, pressing his face against Sherlock's jacket. The difference in height didn't help much in their escape, even though Sherlock was trying to squat a bit to make it easier. And Sherlock was holding the hand that was over his shoulder; it was pleasant, even though John felt as if his arm was about to dislocate. He couldn't say anything more, his throat in a tight knot with all the emotions and relief. He could just smile like an idiot. His thoughts were swirling around his head, and he definitely needed a good rest.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Hello again, it's the last chapter of the fic! I hope you've liked it so far. Thank you for all the support, I really appreciate that, and I hope you will like this chapter too. **

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They didn't say anything more to each other until they reached home, both too shocked and too exhausted to talk. John washed himself first and was slowly dragging his weary body to his bedroom, and then he saw Sherlock standing in front of the window. His gaze was empty; he was thinking, not looking out. The room was dark; Sherlock didn't turn on the lights, but the curtains were not drawn, so the streetlamps were giving the piece a faint orange illumination. John was so tired he thought he would fall asleep right there and then, but then he realized that if he didn't at least tell Sherlock that he had had a discovery about himself, there would be long before such an opportunity arose again. He had lost enough time already, and, as with their interests they risked dying every other day, he didn't want to regret that he took his time again.

So John cleared his throat. Sherlock's gaze shifted from the window and focused on him.

"John", he said, questioningly.

John looked at his face, lit by the orange lights from the street. Sherlock had bags under his eyes, wrinkles on his forehead and a day's stubble on his face. John probably looked even worse; he didn't even try looking at himself in the mirror, knowing he would only find new grey hair on his temples.

"I wanted to tell you something", he said.

"Isn't it something I know already?", came the question.

"Well, I don't think so. Today, I... decided to stop lying to myself... and yourself".

Sherlock smirked and turned to the window again. "How on Earth is it possible to lie to onerself? Is it like one's not aware of one's own thoughts, sitting just there in one's mind?"

"Feelings, Sherlock. Not aware of one's feelings, not thoughts", John decided not to mock Sherlock's social skills again; he took the thing seriously. He wouldn't let Sherlock change the topic. But he was glad that Sherlock couldn't see his face that well, as John knew it was already blazing red. "And yes, it is possible, and I have been doing that quite a lot throughout all my life, but today I decided that I can't do it anymore". He took a deep breath and realized that Sherlock started fiddling with a button on his cuff. "Are you even listening to me?", he asked, the tension subsiding in a second.

"Yes, and I'm afraid I know where it might lead", Sherlock replied, turning and taking a step towards John. John panicked. How could he possibly know? Had he deduced it?

But there was no backing off now. He _had to _say that. He had decided there at the pool that whatever Sherlock's reaction might be, he had to tell him.

"I just wanted to tell you-"

"No".

"-that today I discov- What?"

"Don't".

John froze with his mouth open. His heart was beating loudly. That bastard seemed to really know what he wanted to say, but he wasn't making it any easier.

"No, seriously, don't", Sherlock repeated, his face unreadable.

John crossed his arms. "Oh yeah, if you're so clever, then what did I want to say?"

Their eyes locked and for a moment John was seriously afraid that Sherlock not only knew but didn't approve of his revelations. It was there, in his weary eyes, and it would be so much easier if John wouldn't have to confess and probably make a sentimental pussy out of himself, and yet it was creepy to think that Sherlock might have known even before John himself did. Was it that obvious? John felt his throat go dry, his heartbeat resounding in his ears. "You wanted to say", Sherlock said slowly, drawling the words, "that you were really glad that we both survived this difficult and extremely stressful case".

John's heart skipped a beat and tripped over itself. He averted his gaze.

Maybe Sherlock simply didn't know but said so just to tease John. If so, John should have proceeded. Maybe Sherlock knew but wasn't ready for such a confrontation. Maybe he knew but didn't want to hurt John's feelings today by saying that he didn't love him back. Or maybe it was John who wasn't ready; after all, he backed off eventually...

If they die before he confesses, it will all be Sherlock's fault.

"Yes", John said in a low voice. "That was... just what I wanted to say. Thanks for saving me, there".

"No problem. That's what friends do, right?", Sherlock turned back to the window.

"Yeah. Friends. Sure", John said, feeling lost. "So, yeah. Good night".

"Good night, John", Sherlock said, sending the doctor a little smile.

When John sat on his bed, he heard the shower being turned on. He lay down and covered himself. His eyes were prickling. He felt like crying, like going back there and hugging Sherlock really tight, and telling him everything. But Sherlock said no, and there was no arguing with him.

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**A/N: Before you start hating me for a cliffhanger, I just wanted to tell you that there is also an epilogue. You can guess what will happen in your reviews! :)**


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: So it's finally finished. I'm going to miss this fic so bad. It was a real pleasure to write it, and of course even a greater one to receive all those fabulous reviews! I didn't expect that so many people would like the story. **

**Now, when it is finished, I expect even more reviews of course, and I hope that you'll tell me the good and bad points in the fic! Pleeeease help me improve :) and you can also say whether you want a sequel or not, I'm already planning on writing one but I'll see how it goes. **

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John expected a night without any dreams. But he had a pleasant one that partially compensated for his retreat, that somehow made him feel better about not telling Sherlock right away. The dream was that he was laying in his bed in his own dark room, and there was Sherlock, kneeling just next to the bed, with wet hair smelling of the damned shampoo, leaning against the side of the bed and stroking the hair on John's temple. His hand was warm. His voice was soft when he spoke and although John couldn't see his eyes properly, he somehow was sure that they expressed the tenderness that he had seen at the planetarium and at the pool.

"Sleep, my dear Watson", the detective mouthed more than whispered, as the sound was barely audible. "You have already told me loads of times. It's somehow my turn now".

He then smiled, but it wasn't the half-smile that didn't reach his eyes; it was genuine, it was gentle and it showed just how much Sherlock cared for John. It made John's heart melt in his dream.

The stroking was very pleasant. John wanted to ask Sherlock how was it possible that he had told him and was that why Sherlock said that he knew already, and why he was there in the middle of the night and-

Then there was a tiny kiss pressed to his temple, or maybe it was John's mind tricking him again.


End file.
